


The Two Stages of Grief

by Persiago



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Brotherly Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dean Winchester Needs to Use Actual Words, Dean Winchester Whump, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Post-Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, post-episode s11e3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:04:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiago/pseuds/Persiago
Summary: Set post 11x3. The Mark of Cain is gone, but Dean has no idea how to deal with the aftermath. His relationship to Castiel is frayed, and he doesn't know how to talk to Sam anymore. The boys tackle a mysterious hunt, which quickly turns very dangerous to Dean, and he has to fight for his survival. Will he be able to work through his own guilt and fix things with the love of his life and his brother, before it's too late?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 25
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

Sam and Dean may be good at a lot of things, but they’ve never been efficient in their clumsy attempts to tear down the iron curtains hiding their painful memories. “Hey, let’s just talk this through”, is not an option for them, and they have to be under extreme duress to even breach the subject. Instead they skirt and dance around each other, trusting that one meaningful look exchanged, flicker of smile or brotherly slap on shoulder is enough to bury the skeletons. And somehow, they’ve dragged Castiel down in the mud with them, leaving all three equally hopeless to solve their own problems. Which has been all fine and dandy up until the moment they’ve all sat down together in the kitchen for the first time in God knows how long, and every second feels like that there’s a pack of dynamite ready to blow up at any second. 

Now Dean doesn’t dare to touch Castiel when he shuffles stiffly to take his seat at the kitchen table. Doesn’t dare to look. To see the guilt. He feels the pain radiating from the angel a mile away. Or it could be the blossoming bruises painted on his own swollen face. Even Sam seems reluctant to hold Dean’s gaze, settling for awkward glances and smiles, mostly staring at his beer bottle. Either way, there’s a big, fat elephant in the room and nobody is willing to adress it. A whole herd of them actually, stomping around. The mark of Cain, gone. Dean almost killing Sam. _Sammy, close your eyes._ The words still ring in Dean’s ears every time he looks at his younger brother. Dean beating the shit out of Cas. That was the last time they’ve actually spoke. The Mark… No, _Dean,_ messed up the only good thing he had managed to build with Castiel and now he has no idea where they stand. And last but not least, Rowena has escaped and Dean is sporting his own, impressive set of bruises, courtesy of hexed Cas. Karma's a bitch, and the punishment feels very much deserved. 

Dean carefully presses the cold beer bottle to his swollen face, sighing in relief. Cas keeps fidgeting and giving him wide-eyed looks in the unsubtle way that still seems very much like him. Sam has settled for checking his phone. Dean can’t look at either of them. Every time he does, the guilt makes him so nauseous he wants to vomit. “ _Listen guys…sorry I almost killed you.”_ How do you break out something like that? How can he mend something like that, when the ground beneath them has shattered again, and he’s the one who caused it? 

“Nothing alarming on news,” Sam clears his throat to break the silence, face scrunched up in concentration. Both look up in mild interest. Sam glances at Dean, offering a sympathetic smile when he observes his bruises. Dean almost can return the simple gesture. The smile tugging his lips feels all wrong and undeserved. 

“You should keep applying that,” Sam waves at the bottle vaguely, returning to his phone. 

“Yeah yeah mom, you just keep the beers coming,” Dean mumbles, taking a swig from the bottle and grimacing when the bitter drink stings his bloody gums. Sam shakes his head and scoffs. A feeble attempt at normalcy. Cas sighs heavily, and Dean steals a wary glance where he’s sitting, slumped in his seat from exhaustion.

“You should let me heal that,” Cas says at last, tensing when Dean turns to look at him with a guarded look. The angel holds up his hand, hesitant to get closer to Dean. That makes an unexpected flare of rage burn through Dean and he clenches his jaw, retreating as far away as he can from the healing touch. He doesn’t deserve this. And he’s seriously pissed off at how calm the angel seems. He should be screaming out his hurt, how Dean left Cas, but the angel seems to have lost of his courage alongside with Rowena’s curse, only capable of tiptoeing around the volcanic matter that is their lives. Cas visibly sinks back in his seat when Dean recoils from the touch, looking miserable and tired. 

”Dean,” Cas starts, frustrated. _Just apologize. Man up and deal with it._ Dean wants to shove his own thoughts somewhere undignified. This ain’t something that can be fixed with a simple _sorry_. 

“Nah, I had them coming,” he forces between his teeth, avoiding the angel’s eyes. For a few moments the atmosphere becomes charged, all the accusations laid bare in the air. Cas looks like he wants to say something, but he’s helpless getting the words out. Sam just follows the exchange quietly. He doesn’t want to stick his hand into this mess, but the neutral disposition his brother has taken angers Dean. Dean knows he’s lashing out his hurt and guilt and they don’t deserve it, but sitting here pretending to be all _see no evil hear no evil_ is harder than he even thought. 

“So, jack squat on Rowena as well?” Dean directs their attention elsewhere, fixing his eyes on his brother sharply. Sam just blinks in surprise, like Dean caught him doing something inappropriate. 

“Um, nothing’s come up, no. She’s smarter than that to end up in our radar. It might be awhile until we can get the jump on her.” Sam fixes few strands of unruly hair behind his ears, doing his best impression of not hearing anything he wasn’t supposed to hear. Dean gives him a pointed look but lets it go. Sam looks uncomfortable, and Dean can’t blame him. Caught in this shitstorm on top of everything else is not what Sam needs and deserves.

“Look guys, I’m pretty beat, I think I’m gonna hit the hay.” His brother begins to rise, looking for a way out, gathering his half empty bottle and phone and giving Cas a good-hearted pat on the shoulder. Cas smiles weakly in return. 

“Take it easy, both of you,” he calls over his shoulder before exiting the kitchen and Dean lifts the bottle in salute. As soon as his footsteps fade into the hallway, the silence between Dean and Cas turns so bitter he can almost taste it. He takes another sip from his beer just to wash the taste away. He doesn’t know how to fix this. The helplessness makes him want to crawl into himself. Cas seems to be shrinking smaller with each passing moment too, torn between giving Dean miserable looks or opening his mouth. 

“Cas, stop looking me like a beaten dog, okay?” Dean snaps, regretting his harsh tone the second the words come out of his mouth. Cas finally stops his cowering, blue eyes steeled, hiding his hurt. The angel thinks he can mask his emotions well, but he always forgets Dean can read him like a book. Most of the time, at least. Moments like these are the ones which show how fragile they are with each other, he realizes with pang of shame. How easily it all crumbles. The loss gnaws his insides, even though Cas is right there. 

“I just don’t get why you won’t let me heal you. I don’t like to see you hurt.” Cas spreads his hands in a gesture of defeat.

“You’ve done enough!” Dean raises his voice. Cas swallows and flinches, something cracking in his hastily put up defenses, looking at Dean like he shattered his whole world. Dean closes his eyes, runs a hand gingerly over his bruises.

“Dammit Cas. I-I don’t think this is a good moment to talk about this.” Dean struggles with his words, trying to find any sense in this situation and failing. The guilt is eating him and he needs to be alone, so he can bury all that fucked up shit deep inside him and come back less broken. More like the man everyone’s expecting him to be. “I think I’m gonna go sleep.” Dean’s trying to keep his tone even, but his voice falters midway through. He rises slowly, keep his gaze directed everywhere but the angel. 

“Yeah, me too.” Cas sounds like he’s given up and Dean hates himself for that. _But you don’t sleep,_ he wants to say. A stupid, insignificant inside-joke between them that has stuck throughout the years, right from the beginning when Cas seemed confused about the concept of sleeping together. And he hates that he can’t say it, a reminder that Cas feels like home to him. And now the bond between them is frayed, yet Dean’s not sure he can fix it. He’s not sure if the whispered “goodnight” passes his lips when he shoulders past Cas, but he hears the other man speak in a thin voice behind him.

“Goodnight Dean.”

* * *

The bunker never quiets down, not even in the night. The giant machinery that works as the building’s heart, lungs and arteries hums, pulses and occasionally makes ticking, whirring sounds as Castiel makes his way down the corridor to the library. It has always given him solace and keeping company in the dark, when he guards Dean’s sleep, listening to the man breathe right next to him. Now the low background noises sound mocking; too loud and irritating to him. 

Heavy thoughts weigh his shoulders down. He has molded his shape to fit Dean, chosen him over and over again, only to watch everything burn down once more. _You’ve done enough._ Dean’s words ring hollow in his ears. Isn’t he the one who betrayed Dean by chasing down the cure for the mark? Isn’t he the one who’s responsible for Charlie’s death? All the good intentions seem to turn sour in his hands. Dean’s the opposite. He pulls through every time, saving the day. It’s what Castiel admires in him, his ability to focus and put others first. It appeals to the celestial being in him, the selfless dedication to better the world. But this time, it hasn’t worked out in his favor. Dean’s always been able to shake off his personal feelings when there’s a world to be saved, and dealing with cursed, dying Cas didn’t exactly offer them fertile ground for healing. So, it all ended up being bottled until they actually sat down and realized they had no idea what to do with each other. It broke Castiel that Dean couldn’t even look at him when they finally had the chance to find their footing again. The distance between them felt cold and vast, an endless ravine. So yes, Castiel has done enough and there’s only one way he knows how to fix it. 

Castiel reaches the library and freezes at the doorstep. A single lamp lights the room, and Dean’s solitary form paints silent shadows at the walls. He’s deep in thought, a book and a bottle of whiskey in front of him. Castiel considers turning back, but he has to do this at some point. He steps hesitantly into the room, and Dean stirs. They lock gazes, and Dean takes in Cas' formal attire.

“Really? You’re planning to slip out in the dead of night?” Dean’s voice is hollow. The lack of instant rage doesn’t feel any less comforting than this emptiness Dean’s attacking him with. There’s a small voice inside of Castiel that pleads him to salvage what he can, but looking at the other man makes any hope die within him. 

“Dean- ,” he struggles with words, hoping that Dean would let him off the hook, just this once. 

“No Cas, give me your best shot. It’s better I let you leave and it never worked out between us, right?” Dean works up some anger into his tone, glaring at the angel. 

“It _is_ better that I go!” Castiel argues. Dean closes the book with a decisive _thump_ and gets up, chair scraping the floor behind him.

“How? In what universe has it been ever for the best that you disappear? I know it’s not easy between us right now, I said some shit, I did some…things, but that doesn’t mean you get to quit on me like that.” Castiel recognizes the veiled despair underneath Dean’s harsh demeanor and his heart feels like a heavy stone.

“Dean, try to understand. I’m doing this for me. I’m not…giving up on anything, I just think it’d be best I stay away from you now.” Dean bites his lower lip in frustration, his whole posture tightening.

“Yeah? Best for whom?” He challenges Castiel. Dean is making this as hard as he thought we would. At least this time their fight doesn’t seem like it will come down to blows. Castiel isn’t sure if he would prefer Dean hitting him square in the jaw and be done with this, because every moment makes it harder for him to leave.

“This is pointless. You can’t stop me.” Castiel speaks in a low voice, and hardly able to look at the other man, he starts making his way through the library, legs heavier than lead. Dean rounds up on him from the other side of the table, face pale with anger underneath the freckles, stopping in front of the angel. 

“You’re a fucking coward, you know that?” He jabs a finger in Castiel’s chest, invading his space, green eyes filled with rage. Castiel sighs heavily. In order to save him from a lot of pain, he must hurt Dean now. He forces himself to look at the hunter with pained eyes, taking in the freckles on his nose, light stubble on his cheeks, the bags under his eyes, the bruises, all the details that he knows by heart. 

“So are you. You just can’t deal with the fact I'm walking away from you, like the rest. It isn’t about whether you want me to stay. I’m done saving you, Dean.” The last one is a lie, and Castiel’s voice almost breaks down when he whispers the words, his mouth refusing to cooperate. The impact hits Dean like a freight train, and he becomes so very still, only the tightness around his eyes convening how he feels. Betrayed. _Not you too._ Castiel knows he crossed a line there, to specific things that rip apart Dean every night. Things that Castiel has tried to mend with careful, soothing fingers. _You deserve to be saved._ The trust shatters between them so audibly, it almost sounds like glass breaking. And Castiel knows he can never forgive himself for that. 

Dean hunches his shoulders down, refusing to look at him, and suddenly his whole frame seems to shrink. 

“Just fucking go,” he huffs, sounding awfully quiet. Seeing the damage Castiel has done, _again,_ makes his insides freeze, a whole lot of panicked chatter invading his skull. _What have I done? Am I doing the right thing, at all?_

“Please- ,” he starts, a desperate attempt to mend what he can, even though he knows it’s too late. Castiel just wants to cradle the other man’s face between his hands and soothe the agonized lines around his eyes away. For Dean, the one, single word hanging between is too much and it sets him over the edge. Castiel sees the signs milliseconds before Dean becomes a flurry of furious movement, in the tensing of his muscles, in the way his jaw sets, before he grabs an empty beer bottle from the table and hurdles it across the room. The sound of shattering glass rings in Castiel’s ears, and Dean is practically in his face, teeth bared like a beast.

“GO!” He growls, such wrath in his eyes that Castiel fears the mark is still devouring him. He almost flinches backwards, stopping himself in the last second. It makes ice cold fingers writhe deep beneath his skin, settling in his stomach. Castiel recognizes the feeling as fear. Fear of the other man. He swallows it down, moving quietly past the hunter. There are million apologies poised on his tongue, but he doesn’t dare speak them aloud anymore. He hears Dean pick up something from the table, hears the object hitting the wall heavily. Castiel can’t turn back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always appreciated. Not a native speaker here and I don't have a beta, so the mistakes are mine and mine alone. (Anyone willing to beta this..?). I'll post the chapters regularly, the fic has been finished for ages but I just need to post them :)


	2. Chapter 2

_”Come on! It’s not even that cold!” Dean taunts, waist deep in water. Actually, it is that cold, as is evident from the goosebumps on his forearms. But he isn’t about to back down now, not when Cas is already dipping in his toes carefully, clad only in his boxers._

_“Not that cold? I’m freezing already!” Cas argues, marveling at the way his body reacts to the cooling water. He hasn’t been human for long, and Dean wants him to have the “full-human experience,” as he calls it, a to do-list of perfectly mundane, must-do-activities. It lights him up to see Castiel’s reactions; the angel’s eyes widening in surprise, a pleased smile, face scrunched up in confusion that is so like him._

_They just finished a trivial hunt in Omaha, and Dean wouldn’t shut up about this awesome lake that was “practically in their backyard,” so they took a detour to a smaller city, called Des Moines, on their way back. Dad had taken him and Sam there once when they were kids, and Dean could still remember the eroded, orange-tinted cliffs and greenish shores, the clear water and the excitement from the simple pleasure he got to be with his family. Sam’s memories were hazier, he had been four or five years old, but he listened to Dean reliving the experience with a gentle smile on his lips. They’d finished a hunt in the town and Dad thought it’d be good practice for the boys. Still it was closest to a family vacation they’d ever had. Dean wanted to chase that memory of a rare, perfect day with the people closest to him, and so he spent almost half the trip convincing Cas to try swimming. The sun was almost setting when they finally reached the town, and Sam suggested they spend the night there._

_“Why don’t you guys check out the lake? Drop me off to the nearest motel and I’ll get us some grub and a room.” Dean glanced at his brother sitting in the passenger seat, hiding his mild disappointment._

_“You don’t want to come swimming?”_

_“I think you got this. Just keep Cas alive,” Sam gave him an encouraging smile, patting his shoulder. He had probably known back then already, playing a damn matchmaker._

_And so now here they are, after racing each other to the edge of the water and shedding their sweaty clothes on the rocky beach, the setting sun coloring the almost still water in shades of red. They are the only ones here, as the autumn has chased any late beach-goers away. There’s a lot of thinly veiled electricity in the air between them, a flame they aren’t sure how to nurture. Dean wades in the water, closer to Cas, who’s hesitating, holding out his hand and grinning irresistibly._

_“Don’t be a pussy. You gotta try it, man.” Cas frees his folded arms, a futile effort to shield his body from the cold, look of doubt crossing his features when he holds out his hand. Dean wrinkles his toes underwater before they start to get too numb and tries to look innocent when their ice-cold fingers intertwine, never taking eyes off the other man. Cas follows Dean and takes a step deeper, and another, the fine hairs on his body bristling up and he holds his breath instinctively the deeper they get. Dean doesn’t give him any warning before he yanks Cas with him into the water, laughing like a five-year-old at the sound of his indignant screams. The water splashes everywhere when Cas flails his limbs, trying to grab anything, still holding on to Dean’s hand as if his life depended on it._

_“D-Dean, hold on, I don’t- I don’t know if I can swim,” he exclaims, panicked and Dean decides to have mercy on the man. He pulls Cas closer to him, trying to still his struggle to stay above water, wrapping his arms around Cas' waist._

_“Alright Bruce Lee, you can calm down now. I got you.” Dean smirks, pressing their chests against each other, grateful for the little warmth it provides. Cas relaxes in his grip, and his face lights up in a hesitant smile in return. He places his trembling hands on Dean’s broad shoulders, stays there, allows Dean to keep him afloat in the shallow water. Dean finds his footage again, almost slipping on smoothened rocks underneath the surface. Their hair has gotten wet, sticking up funnily, little droplets running down their faces. Dean blinks to keep the water out of his eyes. Suddenly it becomes a lot more quiet and intimate. They look at each other, faces inches apart. Cas is searching something in his eyes, a stubborn, black curl of hair stuck to his forehead. Dean frees his hand to smooth it back, running his fingers through the wet hair in afterthought, because it’s something he really likes to do, as he has found out recently._

_“What are we doing, Dean?” Cas asks gently, his thumb tracing out the strong muscles in his neck absently._

_“We’re swimming, kinda,” Dean offers him a lopsided grin, suddenly feeling very nervous. He’s trying to buy some time to figure out how much he dares to say. Dean usually doesn’t do feelings, so he has no idea how to maneuver this minefield. Cas gives him a look that tells he sees right through his bluff._

_“Why did you want to take me swimming?” The former angel asks instead, placing his words carefully._

_“Because I like you, isn’t it kinda obvious? I mean I kissed you once already and all,” Dean blurts out, relieved that the cold temperature is hiding how he feels the heat rising on his cheeks._

_“Yeah you did.” Cas gives him a warm smile that makes his eyes crinkle. They had a pretty heated and completely spur-of-the moment make-out session in the Impala few days ago and afterwards they’d been circling each other like cats in heat, but never had the courage to bring it up. He’s not even sure who initiated the kissing in the first place. Okay, that’s a lie. Dean vividly remembers pulling Cas in by the lapels of his coat and smashing their mouths together like teenagers. But Cas responded just as eagerly, and it was the best thing Dean had ever experienced._

_There’s now a lot of fondness in Cas' blue eyes reflected at Dean, who doesn’t know what to do with that. He has seen glimpses of that look for years now, but now Cas isn’t hiding it anymore and is letting it all out in the open. Making himself vulnerable._

_“Whoa there, you’re looking at me like you’re ready to propose,” he chuckles nervously, needing to dial this moment down a notch, so he doesn’t lose his nerves all together._

_“It’s just I like you too, Dean. A lot.” Cas explains, squinting his eyes like he’s trying to figure out this emotion. Humanity will do that to you._

_“Cool.” Dean berates himself for his eloquent words. “I don’t know what this is, but let’s just enjoy it, okay?” He continues with a shaky smile, hesitantly resting their foreheads together. Cas keeps staring at him, looking as intense as the times he knew him only as the angel of the lord._

_“Would it be against some swimming etiquette to kiss you now?” He asks in all seriousness, which Dean finds sort of silly, because they’re practically halfway there with their tight embrace. He wants to make some half-assed Titanic-reference to Cas' question, but his brains are only able to supply him with a stammered one-word reply._

_“Uh, no,” Dean manages, and Cas' lips feel quite nice and cool on his, and suddenly he doesn’t mind the cold anymore._

* * *

Dean wakes up from his dream groggily, mouth tasting like shit and with a pounding headache. He rolls over, trying to find the familiar warmth next to him, until he comes to his senses and opens his bloodshot eyes. _Fuck. Again._ Waking up alone is something he should be already familiar with, but somehow his body refuses to accept this somewhat new reality. Dean feels nothing when he fixes his blurry vision to the empty spot in his bed. He feels everything. _Fuck this._

Getting up is a feat but he does it, feet almost tripping in the empty bottles discarded on the floor. Sam’s gonna give him shit for that one again. The thought makes the ever-present guilt flare up in his chest, tightening it uncomfortably. It isn’t fair to Sam. He just barely got his brother back and now Dean’s letting him down again. They’ve done some meager hunts to get back on track again, a vampire nest in Tulsa, a rogue Indian god and couple of rabid werewolves in the general vicinity of Colorado, and rest of the time just gathering intel on the Darkness. Their results are scarce, despite Sam’s researching skills. Staying cooped up too long in the bunker is making frustration slowly slither under Dean’s skin, and he can’t get comfortable anywhere. Getting back on the hunts feels good at least, although it felt like he and Sam sort of stumbled their way around each other first. Dean is trying his best not to shut down on his brother again, and he still sees some hesitation in his brother’s eyes when Sam looks at him. To Dean it feels like there’s an invisible wall separating them. They’ve had their fair share of piled up shit in the past, but this guilt, this living, devouring thing, has lodged deep inside of Dean and he doesn’t know how to cut it out. It all comes down to one specific thing, that he never, _ever,_ wants to see his little brother beaten, on his knees, ready to give his life for Dean again. 

Dean drags himself to the kitchen, not surprised to find Sam already there, typing something on his laptop. His brother gives him a smile as greeting, glancing him over appraisingly and concentrating back on whatever nerdy stuff that gets him up in the morning, face suspiciously neutral. 

“There’s some coffee left. Looks like you need it,” he greets Dean, who grunts in return. Dean pours some for himself, shuffling over to his brother to see what he’s doing, the smell of hot coffee waking up him a little. 

“You got us a case?” Dean asks, voice rough, looking over the news pages and maps Sam’s got open in his tabs. Sam gives him a calculating look, like he’s trying to assess how much he should tell Dean. Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Yeah, I just wasn’t sure you were up to it, so I’ve been looking it over myself.” Sam says somewhat hesitantly, eyes moving over his three-day scruff and the dark circles under his eyes. Given the recent events, it might be a reasonable reaction, but at the same time he feels a pang of hurt and anger that Sam even thought about leaving him on the sidelines. _Some use you are like this,_ a voice inside of him whispers.

“I’m up. Hit me.” He sits opposite of his brother, playing with his coffee mug. Sam simply shrugs, clicks something and starts reading aloud.

“So, a 54-year-old man kills a priest by hitting him repeatedly with a blunt object, yelling how unclean his soul is and other religious crap like that. The witnesses tell that the man’s eyes and ears were heavily bleeding during this, and get this, he spontaneously explodes right there in the middle of the church. Like a full-on explosion with guts flying everywhere. Now, according to the wife, the man wasn’t religious and didn’t even know the priest. Apparently, he was acting really strange the whole afternoon, and then just…walked out of the house without saying anything. This was in…” Sam pauses and skims the text, “Lawton, Oklahoma.” 

“Well okay, the man does his best impression of a holy hand grenade,” Dean mutters dryly, earning him a _“really, Dean?”_ -look from his brother. Prude. He motions Sam to continue, rolling his eyes.

“Um, so this was apparently yesterday, and more or less the same thing has happened five days ago in Sandersville, Georgia. A teenage girl stabs two and disappears. They find her remains 20 miles out of town. And another, three weeks ago in Oregon. This time no body was found. And this is just what I’ve found so far.”

“That…doesn’t sound like much of a pattern. So, what connects these killings?” Dean takes a long sip from his coffee, relieved to distract himself with a case, despite the fact he feels like he’s been run over.

“Not much. They’ve acted weirdly, like _possessed_ , describes one witness. They’ve suddenly found their faith, killed people in God’s name and died afterwards, leaving only bits and pieces left of themselves.”

“So how did you piece this together? The killings take place all over the country.” Dean is genuinely impressed, but Sam glances at him sharply with an unreadable expression.

“It was fairly easy, once I knew what I was looking for,” he says dismissively, turning his focus back on the screen. Okay, there’s something Sam’s not telling him, but Dean doesn’t have the energy to pry into his secrets. He gets up with a groan, raps the table with his knuckles.

“Well good going, Einstein.” He compliments his brother and Sam rewards him with a small smile. They go about their morning routines in their usual silence, and this morning they almost have a sense of normalcy. Dean fixes himself some cereal and opens the first beer bottle of the day, settling back in his seat. He offers his brother a taste, but Sam refuses with a shake of his head, instead just giving Dean a meaningful stare. 

“You sleep okay?” Dean rolls his eyes again at the question. The inquisition never stops. 

“Yeah, like a fucking baby.” He says shortly, wishing pointlessly that Sam would just let it go, but he’s like a bloodhound with these things. They both know how it goes. Hit and evade. But it’s their thing. Sam sees Dean more clearly than anyone, and he has never learned not to shelter his little brother from his troubles. Sam expects to hear a reassuring answer, because if Dean would say otherwise, then he’d know things were monumentally fucked.

“I know getting back to this life isn’t easy after…you know.” Sam is struggling, avoiding speaking about the Mark like it’s the plague. He licks his lips, trying to weigh his next words. Oh, Dean’s not gonna like this. 

“And…it’s okay to miss him, Dean. You should speak to Cas.” The beer bottle hits the table with excessive force. And suddenly it’s all back, anger and betrayal and hurt, all tangling together inside of him, twisting and stabbing and tearing everything in its path. They say there's five stages of grief, but he decided to stick with the first two. 

“Why would I speak to him? He’s the one who couldn’t wait to get out of here. He’s the one who _left_.” Dean sweeps aside his breakfast, edging closer to Sam, and he almost feels sick with anger. Sam doesn’t flinch, instead he just searches Dean’s eyes and he feels ashamed of how much Sam can see there. 

“Dean, I don’t-“

“Drop it, Sammy.” Dean barks, dropping his gaze, his tense body deflating. And for once, his brother listens and leaves it be. There are certain lines they can’t cross, and both of them still respect them. But the prodding has taken its toll and Dean feels spent already. He gathers his hardly touched breakfast and dumps the soggy cereal in the trash can. 

“Maybe it’s best I’d take this case on my own,” Sam says tightly, trying not let his frustration show. Yeah, no luck there, kid. He’s not gonna get left behind.

“What are you talking about? I’ll be ready in five,” Dean calls over his shoulder when he exits the kitchen, not bothering to wait for a reply. There goes that relaxed morning.

Well, technically it turns out to be more than five minutes, but Dean blames his hangover. Roughly after seven hours they are finally nearing Lawton, riding the Impala around the outskirts of the town, trying to find a suitable motel. They’ve hardly said a word during the first half of the trip, although Sam has dug out some new info on religious murders in the last five months, and curtly gives Dean the details. The cases have been happening mostly in small towns all over the country, some even in Canada, increasing in the last two months. They throw around some ideas and Sam tries to narrow down their suspects. “I’m out if it’s witches, man. That’d be just fucked up, Jesus-witches”, Dean says in disgust. But Sam is convinced it’s got something to do with angels, maybe a group of them, or even demons with a weird sense of humor. “The whole explosion thing would fit angel M.O.,” Sam thinks aloud, and Dean argues it could be hex bags too. The bickering restores some normalcy to their interaction, and they seem to leave some of the tension back behind them on the road. Sam still feels more jittery than normal, often stealing unsubtle glances at his direction, drumming his fingers against his thigh, but whatever secrets he’s got buried underneath, Dean’s not gonna give him the satisfaction of digging it up. Either way, they got nothing concrete when they pull to the parking lot of a shabby motel, called the Shanghai Inn. It’s dark already, soft drizzle making the windshield all foggy, and Dean peers outside, taking in the run-down green paint and half-decayed oriental decorations on the door frames. 

“Seems like a good fit.” 

“Whatever gets you going. I’ll get the room,” Sam offers and gets out of the car, letting in the smell of damp autumn air. Dean opens the door after him and it creaks with a heartbreaking sound.

“Sorry Baby, I’ll fix you later,” he mutters aloud, patting the hood of the car, somewhat ashamed. He gets the bags out and waits for Sam, stuffing his chilled hands in his pockets. He’s missed being on the road like this with his brother. Their usual banter has managed to make his heart lighter somehow, and for a second he is ready to believe that maybe things could turn out okay. Dean kills that thought quickly before the dark thoughts can corrupt it. Finally, Sam emerges, dangling a set of keys from his hands and guides them to their room, unlocking the door. 

It’s…green. Faded pictures of fat, Chinese dragons are mounted on the wall, coupled with creepy looking Chinese dolls on the counter. The room smells like mold and cheap air freshener. They both take in the decorations in stunned silence, before looking at each other.

“We’ve had worse,” they both say at the same time. Dean can’t help the mischievous grin that spreads to his face, and Sam grins warmly in response. 

“Remember, you picked it,” Sam shrugs, tosses his bag to the bed on the farther side and starts unpacking.

“Only the best for you, Samantha.” Settling into their usual routines, they go over the usual wards, shower, a gun inspection and junk food. The familiarity feels comforting and Dean realizes they haven’t done this after the Mark had gotten worse, before it all went to shit because of him. It still hits him sometimes, often completely out of the blue, the feeling that there’s something eating away at his insides, the burn in his arm. But his hands don’t tremble anymore if he doesn’t kill, and the killing doesn’t make his skin tingle in pleasure, so he has to take that as a guarantee that everything is fine and dandy now. 

“Look alive.” Sam tosses him a beer and Dean catches it automatically. He licks the grease off his fingers with no self-reservation and sets aside the remains of a cold pizza on the bed. 

“This is good,” Dean muses contently, and Sam looks caught off guard, before his features settle into a hesitant smile, happier than Dean’s seen him in weeks. He wishes he could make his brother smile like that more often. He certainly hasn’t given him a reason in a while. 

“This is good,” Sam repeats and they raise their bottles in salute. They stay silent for a while after that, neither willing to sacrifice this fragile peace. Dean still doesn’t know how to approach the most hurtful stuff; the huge, screaming elephant that’s been following them around ever since he got back. But maybe, just maybe, he can start with the small things, chisel the iron curtain down chip by chip. 

“Look, Sam. I’m sorry about this morning. I…shouldn’t take this out on you, man. It’s just…all this crazy shit that’s been happening and I can’t seem to catch a break. It’s my burden to bear and I’ll try to leave you out of this mess.” He evades all the jagged details, but now, this has to be enough. Dean can’t quite bear to look at Sam when he forces out his apology, instead focusing on his hands, fiddling nervously with the mouth of the bottle. Sam doesn’t hesitate at all when he answers softly. 

“Dean, I’m in this mess with you, good or bad, and I’m here by my own free will. I have your back. But I still think you should make up with Cas.” Dean opens his mouth to argue, but Sam raises his hand, shutting him up.

“You’re gonna hate me after this, but um, I’ve haven’t been exactly honest about this hunt.” Dean lifts his brow in a silent question, but Sam evades his gaze, looking suddenly very nervous. Dean sets down the beer. He knew there was something off with this hunt. And this is where Sam decides to unload whatever crap he’s been carrying since the morning. 

“What did you do?” He asks quietly, an alarm going off in his head. Just then there’s a knock on the door and they both flinch, and Dean reaches for the gun immediately. He fixes his eyes on Sam, silently demanding answers and the sasquatch has the nerve to look apologetic.

“He asked for my help, Dean. Our help.” He looks at Dean helplessly. 

“You didn’t.” Mostly Dean feels disappointed, the other part wants to scream and bleed his anger out. The feelings are still dulled, as he’s trying to wrap his head around the fact that his brother lied to him again and sat with him the whole evening, without showing a single sign of discomfort. And he had been so blind the whole time. That little shit. Glaring at Sam, jaw clenched, he gets up and almost wrenches the door open. And there he is, the baggy trench coat drenched from the rain, dark hair dripping wet, blue eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, they stand perfectly still and stare at each other in a frozen silence. Dean can’t breathe. Then all the sensations in his body come back with a whoosh and it kind of feels like getting knifed under the ribs, muscles screaming out their dissonance, _run hit hide touch_ and he can’t move an inch. 

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel says, voice gravelly with weariness, and he looks so rumpled and miserable that the whole encounter feels like a scene from a royally bad movie.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some NSFW and gore in this chapter.

Castiel’s heart is pounding in his chest when he knocks on the door and stands in wait. He’s only met with prolonged silence from inside the room, which makes him double check the room number. Eleven. That’s what Sam said. It’s more than likely that the brothers are having a silent showdown inside on whether to let him in right now. He shuffles awkwardly away from the door, trying to adjust his damp clothing, even running his fingers through his wild hair in an effort to comb it. A big part of him just wants to run away. Castiel knows the extent of Dean’s rage and he feels sort of terrified to face him now. But he has to try. He has replayed the conversation with Sam countless times, trying to work up his resolve. 

_“How is he?” Cas asks after a pause, not sure he’s allowed to ask that. They’ve talked about the case very briefly but Sam has been very careful not bring up Dean. He hears Sam sigh, his breath rattles in the phone speakers._

_“Not gonna lie, it’s pretty bad. He drinks a lot and lashes out on everything. He wants nothing but to hunt. He refuses to talk to me. But I think he misses you. A lot.”_

_“…and I miss him.” Castiel can’t hide the regret in his tone, and Sam catches it immediately._

_“So fix it, Cas!”_

_“I-I can’t. It’s better for him if I stay gone.”_

_“Jesus, Cas, are you listening to yourself?” Castiel shrinks when Sam’s tone hardens. “Right now, Dean’s in a bad place. He thinks he’s no good for anything. He’s shut me out, but you always find a way to reach him. So, fix it.”_

The door is yanked open suddenly and Castiel squints against the light pouring from the motel room, heart stopping for a beat at the sight of a very familiar silhouette in front of him. Dean’s gone all pale and just stares at Castiel, carefully arranging his face to a blank mask, wiping away any traces of shock and hurt that he couldn’t hide straight away. But Castiel catches the conflict in his eyes, he looks like he’s ready to shut the door in his face and leave him outside to soak in the rain. He would deserve it, no doubt. And he’s sorry he has to be the one to bring such pain to Dean.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel manages to rasp out, lungs tightening, and any apologies he was ready to spout as soon as he was face to face with Dean, get stuck in his throat. Dean swallows, muscles in his jaw jumping angrily as he glares at Castiel, unblinking. Castiel sees him clenching his fist on his side, flexing the fingers open and closed, the tendons visible in his hand. 

“Any other surprises I should know about, Sam?” He asks without taking his eyes off the angel, voice rough like sandpaper. Castiel stays on his guard. The hunter is cornered, on edge, and they both know it. And those fists hurt something nasty. He forces himself not to take his eyes off the other man, taking in the haggard looks, the bags under his eyes and the neglected scruff. He did that to Dean. His resolve wanes a little, as despair sets in again. How could Sam think this is a good idea? 

“You would’ve never let me come on my own either way. And you would’ve been pissed of either way too.” Sam gets up and slowly etches closer, looking wary, like he’s expecting Dean to start throwing things around. “And frankly, this is a case. There are people who need our help. So, we all need to stow our crap. Can you do that?” Sam continues, surprisingly harsh. His commanding tone seems to work on Dean though. The hunter swallows visibly, trying to push back his anger. He takes in a deep breath and fixes his gaze to his feet, eyes turning distant. The hostility still radiates from him, but Castiel knows it’s hardwired in the man to place himself second if there are innocent people involved. It’s kind of dirty move from Sam to play, but it works, and Castiel allows himself to breathe at last, when the murderous vibe from Dean eases a little. 

“Fine, if you wanna work the case, let’s work the case,” Dean forces out grudgingly, still evading their gazes, and shifts slightly so Castiel can gingerly slip past him into the room. The door shuts loudly behind him, and Sam steps forward, giving him a sympathetic smile and a pat on the shoulder. Despite his frustration with Castiel over the phone, Sam feels like the only ally he has in the whole world right now. And he grasps that lifeline like a dying man, because he has no idea how’s he going to break through Dean’s defenses. He smiles wearily at the taller hunter and takes the seat Sam offers him, hunching in the chair like that’ll make him less of a target. Sam settles back on the edge of the bed and Dean stays standing up, leaning against the windowsill next to the door, arms crossed and scowling at the floor. 

“So, you were very sparse over the phone about this case,” Sam breaks the uncomfortable silence, pointedly ignoring the glare Dean sends in his direction. Castiel tries to focus on him and collect his thoughts, but he can’t help but keep intermittently glancing at the sulking hunter. This is worse than he even imagined it would be. He wonders if he could still just get up and leave. He made this mess. He hurt Dean and he should have no right to come back and make it worse. The guilt cuts Castiel’s insides like a blade. He fucked things up, again. Over and over again. The only reason he was willing to try this, was Sam, and his insistence that Cas needs to fix this. He owes it to Dean at least to try to close some seeping wounds. 

”Cas? You have anything more that can help us?” Sam startles him and Castiel’s focus snaps back like a rubber. 

“Uh, yeah. These killings have something to do with angels, but I don’t know who. I’ve sensed some…fluctuations in the fabric of the grace, like there is a dissonance chord in it, all within the timeframe of the murders. It just feels wrong. And before the last murder, it just grew stronger. But the killings are so wide-spread that I can’t track down the culprits. That’s why I called you to help.” It had taken surprisingly long for Castiel to put two and two together, but he didn’t possess Sam’s talents for investigation. Mostly he had wandered aimlessly from town to town, picking up on prayers, discreetly trying to help people. This wasn’t the first time he had tried to make it on his own, but this time the days felt hollow, greyed out. But it was the way it had to be, and he had to learn how to live with his choices. Then the case had literally fallen into his lap, when the news had reported a weird murder couple of towns over, and he finally had an explanation for the oppressive feeling that had building at the edges of his consciousness for weeks. 

“You think there are several angels involved in this? What are they trying to accomplish with these murders?” Sam asks, momentarily forgetting the tense atmosphere in the room. Castiel can practically see the wheels starting to turn in his head. Castiel had spent hours staring at his phone after he had hit a dead end with the case when he tried to work it by himself, for some reason expecting to see Sam’s or Dean’s call come in, but the phone stayed stubbornly dead. So, he had worked up his courage and called Sam, his chest tight with anxiety. That obnoxiously human sensation had carved a presence for itself in him after he left the bunker, flaring up in the most inopportune times. Sam had been little bit hesitant to pick up the case, knowing what Dean’s reaction was going to be, but in the end the hunter-side of him had won, knowing that innocent people needed them. And Dean was going to burn himself out like a flare. _“I hate working behind his back on this, but I’m tired of watching him fade away again. Just…bring him back, you know?”_ Sam had made him promise. And Castiel, he’ll always come when he’s needed. 

“They don’t have wings, so it’s impossible to travel those distances so quickly. Some of the murders have been happening in a very short span of time,” Castiel shrugs. Sam nods in agreement. Castiel feels grateful for his silent support. In everything, especially in the way he has supported Dean’s and Castiel’s rocky relationship right from the beginning. He’s probably the reason they managed to wade through some difficult times and still stay together. 

“But I don’t know what their motives are. Perhaps they are some rogue group of angels, more radical in their beliefs. The fluctuations, however, are so strong that it’s causing ripples within our essences. And that can’t be good.”

“What do you mean?” 

“It means they are very strong.” Castiel looks solemnly at Sam, even daring to glance at Dean, who very pointedly looks in other direction. Sam's expression is earnest, and he's nodding his head thoughtfully.

“Then we gotta just deal with it, right?” 

“Just to be clear here, Yoda here feels some disturbances in the force that may or may not coincide with some clearly hexed murders and you’re ready to jump the gun already?” Dean opens his mouth for the first time, ignoring Castiel completely, drilling holes into Sam with his fiery glare. Sam sighs heavily, looking like he was expecting this.

“Dean, we’ve acted on less. If Cas says it’s angels, I believe him.”

“Fine then,” Dean snaps, throwing his hands in the air sharply. He returns to his stoic staring contest with the floor. Cas has followed the exchange quietly, willing Dean glance in his direction even once. But the hunter isn’t exactly known for his mellow temperament. Sam raises his eyebrows in exasperated look and shakes his head minutely to Cas.

“Fine,” he answers in the same tone and digs up his computer, starting to explain to Cas about the evidence of the murders he’s found. But his shoulders are more tense than before, and he steals worried looks in his brother’s direction. They go through their plans for tomorrow; interview the widow, visit the murder scene and the morgue, the usual. This murder is the most recent one, so maybe they can find some traces of the killer and trace some pattern between the murders. Dean listens to them quietly, not offering any kind of insight on the case, or even any snarky remarks. Finally, Sam shuts his laptop and yawns loudly. 

“I think we’ve gone over everything relevant. I’m so tired I can’t see straight,” he concedes, getting up and stretching his long limbs half-heartedly. Castiel takes the hint and gets up too, dusting the non-existent dirt off his pants. Sam turns to face him, face hidden from Dean’s view and gives him a subtle jerk of his head in his brother’s direction, eyebrows raised expectantly. Castiel gives him a confused squint in return, not sure what Sam wants with him, until Sam mouths “ _talk to him_ ” silently. Castiel’s face lights up in understanding, then he flinches in alarm when his mind gets caught up with Sam’s demands. 

“I’m not blind, you assholes.” Dean cuts in behind them, clearly irked. Sam gives Castiel a final, coercive look, before he swirls around and heads for his bag, ignoring Dean’s comment. That leaves Castiel exposed and he gapes like a fish on dry land, trying to find the words that won’t lead to Dean stomping out of the room angrily. 

“Um, do you have moment? I’d like to… talk to you about something,” he stutters. Dean regards him without saying anything, making Castiel feel like an unwanted stray dog in his rumpled clothing. Finally, Dean sighs loudly, making a defeated gesture with his hands, and Castiel’s not sure whether he should feel elated or plain terrified he’s willing to hear him out.

“Okay, let’s go. You got a room?” 

“Yes, right up at the far end.” 

“Lead the way.” Dean pushes himself from the windowsill, still evading his gaze, a discontent frown darkening his features. Castiel glances back to Sam to wish him goodnight, but the hunter gives him a nervous, barely noticeable thumbs-up, and the corners of Castiel’s lips turn into a reluctant smile, despite everything. If only that would be all that was required to fix things.

* * *

The door closes with a _click_ and Dean can’t help but feel trapped. Coming here is like every bad decision he’s ever made multiplied by two. He swore he’d keep away from Cas. No second chances. And now here he stands, trying to find the safest corner of the small single room so he can escape fast if need be. Anger still burns through his veins, but the violent thrashing in his heart has settled. It was hard listening to Sam and Cas talk about the hunt like nothing had happened, trying to include him like he would merrily go along. It was hard to look at either of them, knowing that they had kept this secret from Dean, like it was their place and privilege to start fixing his fucked-up life on his behalf. Like he isn’t capable of doing his own decisions. A fight would have ensued either way, had he stayed with Sam or come with Cas, and he’s too pissed to deal with Sam yet. So here he is.

Dean settles on leaning on an unsteady, worn-down drawer, arms crossed defensively over his torso. He keeps his eyes averted from Castiel, who kind of just wanders about, like he can’t decide where to stand, and instead he shuffles his feet restlessly in the middle of the room. It’s more difficult being alone with Cas than Dean thought. His instincts are attuned to the small, familiar sounds the angel produces, the quiet huffs he makes, the light footsteps. And there’s always that _press_ to be near him, no matter how long they’ve been apart. The ceiling light flickers occasionally, filling the room with yellowed, dull light. It casts sharp shadows on Cas' downward features. The angel is constantly fidgeting with his hands, still trying to find the courage to look Dean in the eye. This seems like the whole other end of the spectrum of Castiel’s unpredictable behavior as opposed to the harsh, distant angel that was adamant on leaving. Dean will get whiplash eventually. 

Cas finally clears his throat. “So, how are you?” His voice scratchy from tension. Dean stares him blankly, until Cas meets his eyes tentatively, shoulders rigid. The second their eyes are locked, the flickering lights and the quiet rattle of the air conditioning fades away in the distance. Dean licks his lips, trying to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to say to that.

“How am I? Seriously? You brought me here to exchange pleasantries?” 

“No! I’m working my way to apologizing to you, but I-I don’t know how to do this correctly,” Cas says hurriedly. Dean rolls his eyes and groans. This is just getting better and better. 

”I don’t have time for your first grade lessons on human interaction. It was a mistake to come here.” He pushes up, ready to bolt for the door, out before things get hairy. But Cas seems to find his nerves at last, grabbing him by his forearm. It’s the arm where the Mark had been, and instinctively Dean expects to find the dark pulse quickening and slithering molten tendrils of wrath into his veins, but nothing happens. Just Cas' tight grip, fingertips pressing into his skin. Cas is closer now, eyes sorrowful.

“I abandoned you. You think I abandoned you.” He speaks softly. The words cut deep, and Dean feels suddenly too exposed, ashamed how easily Cas can read him. Dean closes his eyes momentarily, lips pursed tightly together, and he needs to pull himself together _right_ now. But those are the words that has treacherously slipped into his mind when sits awake at night, trying to drink himself numb. They are the words he refuses to think of, when he’s reminded of Cas. And he has armored himself so well, just pushing on and on, past his breaking point and onward, but those little words threaten to topple him. And it hurts like hell and Dean feels sudden need to lash out, take the pain out on the angel who brought out the shame in him for everyone to see, with that softly spoken statement. 

“Dean, I’m so sorry. For leaving you.” 

“Fuck you, Cas.” Dean wrenches his arm free violently, pushing Cas back. Cas allows the movement, stepping backwards. Dean can’t breathe right, his heart is hammering in his chest like a caged animal. He keeps the angel at bay with a threatening glare, but finding nothing but desperation, ever-present devotion and loyalty being reflected at him. And it almost unravels him. Dean doesn’t deserve it. Cas doesn’t deserve his forgiveness. It’s all a mess inside his head, tectonic plates grinding their edges together and building up the pressure that finds no release.

“I’m sorry for saying those things to you. None of it is true. You have to know that. I was just weak, and I thought running away was easier.” Cas continues, relentlessly breaking him apart further. His voice hitches like it’s stuck on enormous lump in his throat, clothes and hair disheveled and damp with rain, and fuck that, Cas doesn’t get to earn him back with his misery and heartfelt apologies. The anger fuels Dean again, and he finds strength to move and take control of the situation, he _needs_ to. He grabs Cas' coat lapels and almost throttling him, pushes the angel against the drawer, knocking a cheap vase off it. Cas' eyes are widened in surprise, but he lets Dean manhandle him without trying to fight back. That just angers Dean more. 

“You’re a fucking piece of shit. For coming back. Acting like you can fix this with few words,” Dean growls right in his face, feeling the other man’s hot breath on his lips. Their bodies are nearly pressed together, Dean’s grip tightening even more. Cas wears an unreadable expression on his face, searching his eyes for something, risking a quick glance at his lips, and the pressure just… pops. 

Dean yanks his hands off Cas' jacket like it’s on fire, diving straight for his belt, almost ripping the buckle off in his haste. Cas' hands end up gripping his neck, winding in his hair, pulling him closer for an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss. Fuck, Cas tastes like bitter coffee and it’s so intoxicating Dean wants to lick the taste off his lips, his mouth. He tries to fumble the zipper open between the hungry kisses, grinding himself against Cas, feeling them both start to harden against each other. The drawer wobbles beneath them, uneven legs knocking on the floor, and Cas sighs in his mouth when finally, Dean manages to free his cock from the uncooperative clothes. He runs his thumb along the hardened flesh, relishing the small sounds Cas makes, before he starts jerking Cas in quick, hurried movements, without any further plan than to see the angel come apart in his hands, trying to get some friction on his neglected erection at the same time. His body pulses with need, a rapid heartbeat thundering in his ears, drowning out the shaky panting, lips moving on flushed skin. 

Cas breaks the kiss to focus on Dean’s hardening cock, palming him through the jeans and he has to silence an obstinate moan that almost breaks free, burying his face against the other man’s neck. The angel knows exactly what he’s doing and Dean’s movements falter for a moment when Cas' long fingers trail the outline of his cock through the stiff fabric, before slipping in. The touch feels cold on his hot, pulsing erection, sending shivers up his body, and he has to stifle another moan, biting hard on his lower lip. Cas works him free quickly and guides their cocks together with his hand, urging Dean to move with breathy encouragements in his ear. Dean rolls his hips forward, fucking into Cas' tight fist, hot, dry skin dragging against skin. Their erections rub together, and Dean can’t remember the last time when it was so urgent to find release he couldn’t even bother taking his clothes off. Cas feels just as desperate as him, heat coming off him in waves, pulling Dean even closer with a frantic grip on his lower back. He knows how to exert just the right amount of pressure, running his hand up and down their lengths, pausing at the head of Dean’s cock to tease the slit, smearing precum all over, all the while whispering half-coherent stream of _come on, Dean, come on_ into the scant spaces between them. 

Dean’s not sure when his trembling hands ended up seeking support from the angel’s lithe body and the drawer behind them, but he comes suddenly very aware of the fact that Cas is driving him, both of them, by the sounds of it, towards the brink. The angel is doing his best to make it good for Dean, doing it just the way he knows drives him crazy. And somehow it feels wrong, the niceness and how Cas is still thinking about him first. He just wants to get off, as rough and hard as he can. None of that feelings-crap. 

“Fuck...” He groans, mouth moving against Cas' coarse stubble, pushing the angel’s hand away harshly. The angel huffs in displeasure, a disgruntled, small sound which turns into a keen moan when Dean fits them both in his palm, fingers tracing the bulging veins along the shaft of Cas' erection, feeling how slickened both are already. He can’t take his eyes off, mouth dry with sudden thirst, lips parted, when he watches how the heads of their cocks rub together when he sets up a hard, fast rhythm. Cas thrusts against him, legs trembling with building pleasure, and he meets the angel halfway there, so close now. Cas’ wandering hand sweeps over their erections, thumbing Dean’s slit and yeah, if he wasn’t already crashing through his breaking point, this does it. The orgasm hits him like a cold tidal wave, tightening the muscles in his lower abdomen, and he has no other choice but to ride it out, muffling his moans into Cas' exposed throat, hips stuttering compulsively against the angel, and he squeezes out every last ounce of pleasure left in him by seeking friction on his oversensitive cock, only to feel Cas coming too, fingers wound tight in Dean’s hair, groaning out his name, come coating their hands. 

They have to stay like that a while, catch their breath, locked in a tight embrace. Dean’s thighs shake with exertion and he has to pretend that Cas isn’t mostly holding him up. The angel breathes unevenly, warm puffs of air on Dean’s reddened cheek, fingers carding through his messy hair. Dean’s face is still buried in Cas' neck, a familiar scent of _home_ and _safety._ Dean feels so spent when he starts coming down from his high. He feels his sticky fingers and _fuck,_ their clothes are messy with cum. The reality starts seeping in, alarms going on in his head, _you messed up, you messed up._

He pushes off, somewhat reluctantly, and starts pulling his jeans up, mindful of his jizz-covered hand. Cas does the same, staying quiet. The air hangs heavy with unasked questions. Dean can’t look at Cas, so he walks to the small bathroom on wobbly legs, scrubbing his hands clean and trying to salvage his clothes. This wasn’t supposed to happen. His insides turn and twist, chest hollow with ache. He needs space. He needs to think, can’t with Cas right there. 

When Dean steps out of the bathroom, Cas is waiting, wringing his hands nervously, clothes clean like nothing ever happened. 

“Dean.” He simply says, one word laden with all the feelings he can’t quite convey. Dean avoids his eyes, aiming for the door. The room feels like a trap again. He pauses, hand resting on the doorknob, suddenly ashamed to realize how easy it is to run away. He struggles for something to say, mouth opening and closing few times.

“I can’t deal with this right now, Cas.” Dean manages, and the angel must take this as some sort of encouragement to start a conversation, because he can hear him stepping closer softly. 

“Dean, we need to talk about this.” Cas speaks quietly, talking to Dean like he’s some spooked animal. Dean whips his head to fix a heated glare in his direction. 

“What I need, is a drink. Drinks, to be specific. Alone.” Cas stills at his words, something akin to resignation flashing through his worn-out features. There’s something bittersweet about seeing him give up. Dean’s the one to leave this time, but he feels just as empty as the last time. 

* * *

Dean’s been doing a pretty good job of avoiding Sam the whole morning. He sneaked back into their room in the early hours, swaying a little and reeking of cheap booze, and this morning found him like a jackhammer knocking on his skull. He went out on a supply run to get them breakfast while Sam was in the shower, a short trip that threatened to stretch out longer when he learned that the diner had Irish coffee with a fair percentage of alcohol in them. So yeah, he’s dealing with this very well. Dean has no idea what to do with any of the mess he’s in. The little jerk-off-session only complicated things, because he had sworn to stay as far as possible from Cas. And the worst thing? He knew exactly what would go down and still he went, more or less willingly. 

The problem is, Dean knows that Cas has a way of breaking down his barriers. Ever since they first met, Cas has dug his fingers into his core, sometimes painfully, unshackling some pieces of himself he didn’t remember that existed. Sometimes that touch has been borne of forgiveness, soothing his scarred insides. Cas feels like a safe haven, someone to come home to. Someone to share his life with. And that scares Dean a lot. They haven’t ever really discussed this… thing that they have, instead just replacing the words with sweet, slow or hungry and desperate looks and kisses. And things worked out well, until the Mark of Cain. Until Dean screwed it all up because he was too weak to resist the pull. Cas left him because he was not good enough. Dean knows he had something, _someone_ , who was ready to give his everything for him, but he can’t be worth it anymore. So, it’s easier to keep Cas out of reach. Just until he can be someone worthy. And he’s not even sure how serious Cas is about redeeming himself. Maybe he’s just humoring Sam. Maybe he just wanted to see what a mess Dean is and now, all he needs is a reason to leave again. 

When he finally manages to get back to the motel, Sam is sitting at the table, typing something on his laptop. Some things never change. When Dean barges through the door with his offerings in a greasy paper bag, Sam looks up in alarm, immediately trying to read Dean’s mood. 

“Hey,” Dean greets him curtly, throwing the bag on top of Sam’s notes on the table. Sam looks suitably irritated at this, rushing to swipe the bag away and Dean has to bite his cheek to keep his grimly satisfied smile in check. 

“Hey. That took a while. They had to slaughter the pigs for this bacon or what?” Sam opens the conversation with a sarcastic jab, investigating the contents of the bag dubiously. So, this is how he wants to play this. With Sam, it’s usually one of three options, sulk like a teenage boy, dewy-eyed heart-to-heart, or good old ignore the problem right in front of you, or in this case ignore how Dean managed to fuck this edition of Bachelor in Paradise. 

“Oh, you know me. Can’t get through a morning without a proper bloodshed.” Dean rummages through his stuff, finding the painkillers he desperately needs, swallowing them dry. He plops down on a chair opposite of Sam, and his brother hands him the bag wordlessly, chewing on heavily salted bacon. They been through so many fights they both know how to handle this. Act normal until either one of them explodes. It almost feels like a relief to be handling shit like this, at least Dean knows what to expect. A respite from the constant caution that they have taken with each other, eroding the solid foundations of their trust. 

“So, I’m thinking morgue first, then the victim’s wife?” Sam asks without looking up. 

“I don’t care. Let’s just get this over with.” The conversation dries up after that. Dean pretends to concentrate on his phone, skimming through some local news with zero interest. A local market has a wooden veal-mascot named Gary. The new library has a collection of rare books on porcelain painting. The autumn rains are hindering the transport of local crops. God, how can this town be so boring? 

All the while he’s pretending to be immersed in the news, Sam keeps throwing him furtive looks, chewing on his lower lip. Dean only needs to wait a little while longer. He knows exactly how this goes, and refuses to be the one to cave in. Few more minutes pass in a sullen silence, until Sam clears his throat. Yes. A win for Dean. 

“Um, I was just wondering how it went last night. Did you guys manage to…talk?” Sam asks hesitantly, voice kind of quelling when Dean lifts his gaze, staring at him blatantly with a deadpan expression. 

“Explicitly.” He answers without missing a beat. Sam’s eyebrows are scrunched in a certain way when he’s trying to decode Dean, but then a carefully controlled look of horror dawns on his face. 

“Okay, you know what? Never mind, forget I ever asked.” Sam throws his hands in the air and begins cleaning out the trash, furiously avoiding Dean’s gaze. This would a prime time to torture his brother with excessive details, but Dean’s not sure he wants to let Sam off the hook on the whole lying-thing so easily. 

“Never mind? I thought you wanted front row seats to this grand show? Dean and Cas kiss and make up? That is why you lied to me, isn’t it?” Dean leans closer, elbows on the table, tone challenging Sam to come clean. Sam swallows, his face a strange mixture of guilt and irritation. 

“Look, Dean. I’m sorry I had to do this behind your back, but I felt like I had no other choice. To be honest, it feels like you’ve shut me out. And…we just got our lives back. I got you back, man.” Sam looks him in the eye, pleading. Dean breaks the eye contact quickly, finds his hands suddenly very interesting. His own guilt comes rushing in, twisting his insides. _You’re the worst kind of brother. You haven’t been there for Sam._ Sam takes a deep breath and continues, unaware of Dean’s inner turmoil. His voice gains volume with his conviction. “And now… I watch you doing the same mistakes again, you’re making nothing but bad decisions because you’re too stubborn to fix things with Cas. You’re both just so blind sometimes, it’s almost insufferable to watch!” 

“And you think you’re entitled to interfere with my life because I handle my problems differently, is that it?” Dean barks, quick to defend himself. Whatever dark thoughts whispered in his ear get drowned out momentarily by anger. This schtick is getting old; Sam lying to him for the greater good. 

“You don’t handle any problems, you deny they ever existed and bury them deep without ever talking about it!” Sam almost shouts back, frustrated. 

“Christ, Dr. Phil, do you ever stop talking?” Dean gets up, trying to put some distance between them. But Sam gets up as well, blocking his path. They both stand tall, glaring daggers at each other. Dean’s muscles are tight with tension, fingers curled in a fist. He wishes right about now that this matter could be fixed with a one, satisfying punch. But he’s done with that. 

“This is exactly what I’m talking about! You can try to evade this, but eventually you gotta start dealing with this shit! You both do!” Sam gestures wildly with his hands to make his point. Dean steps closer, points an accusatory finger to his chest. What is it with everybody, trying to get him to participate in this sharing and caring?

”How about you start dealing with the fact that you keep always lying to me, huh? Keeping things from me?” That shuts Sam up effectively. Dean watches his brother take a step back, the fire in his eyes dimming, whole posture slumping in defeat. This isn’t the first time at all this has come up in their fights. It’s basically the story of Dean’s and Sam’s lives, lying and keeping secrets from each other, all because they always thought it was better that they try to fix the world alone. And Dean knows Sam has his own regrets of letting down his brother, even though they’ve worked through most of that crap. But sometimes that old anger surfaces, and Dean slightly regrets his heated comment the second it comes out of his mouth, because he knows how much it hurts Sam. 

They stay silent for a while, avoiding each other’s eyes, air suffocating around them. Dean feels suddenly bone-tired, tired of fighting his brother, tired of constantly fucking up his life.

“Sam, look- ,” he starts with a heavy sigh, but Sam cuts him off with a weary hand gesture. 

“You’re right, Dean. I lied to you and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you about Cas, but I was afraid how you’d react. But it wasn’t my place to make decisions for you.” Sam hesitantly lifts his gaze, searching eyes for forgiveness. Dean feels the hard edges of his fury start to soften and melt away. 

“You’re damn right it wasn’t,” he quips. “Can we finally focus on this damn hunt?” Sam still looks at him like a dog who’s been scolded, but a cautious flicker of a smile tugs the corners of his brother’s mouth nonetheless. 

“Truce?” 

“Truce.” Dean steps forward, claps Sam’s broad shoulder, too wired to give him a real smile. Sam nods knowingly, lets his brother push past him to gather their meager possessions, and work quietly to give him some time to gather his thoughts. It feels like their every conversation is laden with fights and tension, and Dean’s starting to get tired of it. But he has no way to make it better. Time heals all wounds and they’ve always been able to work it out, but their Winchester-repair ABC didn’t exactly cover the subject of turning into a psychopath and almost killing a brother. Sam’s able to verbalize his wrongs and seek forgiveness; Dean wishes he was just as strong. 

They head out, dressed in their FBI suits. The morning smells like damp rain and dead leaves, and Dean barely avoids a large puddle right in front of their door. Out of habit, the first thing he looks for is Baby, safely parked further in the lot. He almost halts when he spots Cas, awkwardly leaning against the wet car, looking like he’s been waiting there for a while. When the angel notices the brothers heading his way, he immediately perks up, looking nervous. Dean lets Sam take point, trudging closer slowly behind him. He feels just as conflicted as before. Now that Cas is standing right in front of them again and Dean can think more clearly without the pent-up sexual frustration clouding his judgement, every ounce of certainty leaves him, and he wants nothing but to head for the hills. Sam shoots him in incredulous look, but lets it pass.

“Morning, Cas,” Sam greets him with clear unease in his voice. Dean knows Sam hates being stuck in the middle as a mediator, but time after time still humors his dysfunctional brother.

“Morning Sam. Dean.” Cas sounds just as tense. Dean nods in response, quickly shifting his gaze to his shoes. 

“There was another murder,” Cas blurts out grimly. Both brothers snap to attention at that. Back to business.

“What? Where?” Sam is the one to speak out.

“In Colorado, Grand Junction, as far as I can tell. I could feel it, few hours ago. And I found this in the local news- “, Cas fishes the phone out from his pocket, taps something on his screen and holds it out to Sam, who takes it carefully, “-a local housewife kills his husband and two strangers. The same MO as the others. She went missing. The chances are she could still be alive.” Dean hears the question in his voice and instantly jumps the bone.

“Why don’t you head there first to get the lay of the land? We’ll finish up here with Sam, sniff out the leads, the usual. We’ll catch up with you.” Cas and Sam turn to look at him, Cas with clear disappointment in his eyes and Sam looking like he wants to say something but will regret it afterwards. He glances between Dean and Cas, settling on the latter and hands back the phone. 

“Cas, are you sure these are the same killers? I mean, it’s like…700 miles from here. That’s a long drive.”

“Yes Sam, this is exactly the same as the others.” Cas speaks patiently, but there’s a sharp undertone in his deep voice, like they’ve had this conversation before. Sam sighs defeatedly and runs his fingers through his thick mane. 

“So, what do you want to do?” Somehow, both of them are staring at Dean now, as if he holds all the cards. There’s almost desperate quality in Cas' look, a silent “ _are you sure you want to do this?”_ Dean adjusts himself, uneasy, scanning the almost empty parking lot, absentmindedly noting the overflowing dumpsters by the side of the building and a rundown husk of a car, left forgotten on the corner. This place really is a shithole, even by their standards. He’s probably doing just the opposite of what Sam wants by picking the easier route, but he just needs time. That’s what he needs, yes. It’s just Dean feels like he’s constantly getting knifed when Cas is near. 

“Well, we’ll cover more ground that way,” he offers with less conviction as before. Cas purses his lips into a thin line, hiding his emotions from his face carefully. But the frustration in his stiff posture is clear to Dean. Cas has a way of expressing his feelings with miniscule shifts of his eyes and mouth, how he holds himself. It’s clear as day to Dean, but other people might mistake it for indifference.

“Then it’s better I take my leave,” Cas says tensely. Sam looks equally displeased. Dean offers only a curt nod in response and starts searching for the car keys in his pocket, heading for the driver’s side of the Impala. 

“Keep in touch, okay? Don’t do anything reckless.” Dean hears Sam give some final mother-hen advice when he opens the door, hears the whining creak of the hinges again. 

“Dean?” Cas calls out to him before he can get in, faint distress bleeding out of his voice. Dean stops, pang of regret clenching his heart momentarily. He watches Cas searching for proper words and failing at that. 

“We’ll, uh, talk when we get back. Or see you, I mean,” he fills in the awkward silence clumsily, completing it with a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The flicker of hope in Cas' eyes is real, though. Dean feels like a jerk. Talk. Like that has ever fixed anything. He saves himself from further humiliation by plopping down on his seat, followed by Sam. He starts the car, the very familiar rumble of the engine singing soothing melodies to him. Cas backs up when Dean turns the car and heads for the exit, constantly throwing looks to the rear mirror to catch glimpses of the angel. Cas doesn’t move, instead just keenly following the car with his gaze, until Dean loses him behind some buildings. 

Sam lasts maybe two minutes in the car. 

“Okay, just one thing-“ he starts, turning sideways to look at Dean. Drum roll, the curtains rise, here’s the encore, folks. 

“Have you always been this annoying?” Dean interrupts him somewhat moodily, but not angry yet, and not one bit surprised. Sam ignores him, plows on. 

“I just gotta ask you, are you absolutely sure you want to leave things like that with Cas?” Irritation perks up with the headache Dean thought was gone already. Sam’s doing his finest being his Jiminy Cricket.

“Like you’re any better,” he snaps without thinking. Sam frowns, puzzled. Shit. That was the thing they were not supposed to talk about. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing. Good talk. Let’s talk about it like, never again.” Dean turns on the radio, cranks up the volume to let Metallica cut off any further conversation. Enough is enough, and this isn’t an episode of Oprah. Sam shakes his head, clearly exasperated, but gives up and turns his attention to the city landscape outside. 

The police station comes into view soon enough. Instead of parking the car, Dean drives it near the front doors and leaves the engine on, turning to look at Sam pointedly, who in turn looks at him, pure bafflement written across his face. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Divide and conquer, Sammy. You deal with the stiff, I’ll deal with the weeping widow.” He points at the doors with his thumb, keeping his face blank. 

“That’s not even how you use that phrase- are you trying to get back to me?” Sam raises his voice, anger gaining some foothold. “I get that you’re frustrated and angry, but this isn’t how we work-” 

“It is now. I’ve had enough of you for now. So, scoot, agent McGilligan. I’ll call you if something comes up.” The car is raising some interested looks from the officers heading inside, but Sam looks like he’s ready to go for another round. A nervous muscle ticks in his jaw as he’s trying to swallow down his emotions. 

“Fine. Be a fucking stubborn ass, if you want to,” he says finally, and swings the door open excessively hard. 

“You’re a stubborn-“ Dean’s callout is cut off by the loud slam of the door closing. Fine then. Be like that.

* * *

Juliet Mannings has less interesting things to say than Dean thought it was possible. Between the loud exclamations of “where has this world gone to?” and blaming excessive coffee drinking for the untimely death of his dear husband, he manages to fish out few bits of useful leads. 

“My Richie was never a religious man, no. But before he, um, did those unfortunate things, there was a strange look in his eyes, you know? I was out doing some gardening, and I saw him walk out, all weird-like. It’s like he was a completely different person. He looked at me once, and left without saying a word. It was after that I heard about…” The widow trails off, blinking furiously, clutching a wrinkly tissue in his hand. Dean offers him a smile that he hopes is a sympathetic one. 

“You said his eyes were strange? How?” Juliet leans closer as if he’s ready to let Dean on a well-kept secret.

“Well, I could’ve sworn they were glowing,” she says wonderingly, immediately straightening up and waving his hand dismissively. “But hah! Look at me, ravings of a lonely old widow.” Huh. So, maybe it’s safe to rule out witches at this point. 

“All leads might be crucial, Mrs. Mannings. Was your husband acting strange in the past days or weeks?” Dean asks the routine questions without any gusto behind the words. This sounds like a routine hunt. A rogue angel or angels, lure and bag them. Big deal. He doesn’t get why Sam and Cas got their knickers in a bunch over this. 

“Well, now that I think of it, he was maybe little bit quiet in the last few days. He spent a lot of his free time in his workplace too. Richie had a thing for repairing cars, you see. He said it relaxed him.” Juliet gives him a sweet smile, like they’re discussing the weather, but Dean can tell she’s a mess underneath. Takes one to know one. He intertwines his fingers, leaning forward, tries to convey calm authority.

“Where’s this workplace? I’m afraid I need to visit the site.” So, Mrs. Mannings gives him the address and tries to offer him some tea, which Dean politely declines and excuses himself, before she can start showing him her doily-collections. 

“I’m sorry for your loss, mam,” Dean offers as parting words, once he’s safely out of that herb-smelling house. Juliet extends her delicate hand, squeezes his tightly.

“Now now, it’ll all be alright.” Before Dean can start wondering what she means, the door closes, and he’s left alone on the front porch. He checks his phone before he starts the car, but there are zero messages or calls, so after few minutes of indecisiveness he tries calling Sam, but it goes to voicemail after few unsuccessful rings. 

“Heya, I, uh, got something that might be a lead. I’m gonna scout the place, see if I can find something that might tell us if our guy was dabbling with things he shouldn’t dabble with. Call you later.” Not hearing his brother’s voice makes Dean uneasy somehow. 

* * *

The uneasy feeling follows Dean to the site. Turns out good old Richie did more than work here; he owned the friggin big complex that comprises of a grey, spacey building, housed for cars that are brought there for fixing and a small number of new ones, and a smaller warehouse in the back that mostly holds his personal projects and acts as a storage. Dean really hopes the personal tinkering projects are somewhat more classic, because the cars on the front just look too new, too soulless and clean.

Dean doesn’t spot anyone on the premises when he maneuvers Baby next to a light blue Ford in front of the warehouse. It feels a more fertile ground to start searching for anything out of the ordinary, but he knows that he’s grasping at straws here. The killer was here and now they’re gone. But they still gotta figure out who they’re dealing with. Dean automatically glances at the front seat when he exits the car, takes in his surroundings. It seems the man’s death has brought the place to a full stop, and the stillness instead of where there should be noise and movement, makes Dean more aware of every creak and clang he hears in the yard. He sort of regrets leaving Sam behind now, and double checks he still has the gun in the waistband of his jeans, loaded and safety on. Dean grabs the angel blade from the trunk as an afterthought as well, stuffs it under his belt, before heading for a side door closest to him. Trying the handle reveals it’s locked. The widow gave him the keys to the main gate but forgot all the rest. So, Dean digs out a lockpick while grumbling to himself that Sam should be there to do this. The door opens very quickly though, and Dean enters the dark hall. 

The dirty windows near the ceiling offer only dim, greyish light, illuminating several shapes of cars scattered in the space, underneath the brown covers, forgotten. Thick, tiled pillars divide the hall into smaller sections, each equipped with workbenches in various stages of disarray. There’s a flight of stairs leading to a windowless office in the back, its’ door opened invitingly. Dean lifts the cover from the car closest to him in vague interest, recognizing an older model of Mercedes-Benz, probably from the eighties. Unimpressed, he lets the cover fall back to its place, continues to map out the place, constantly wary. It feels like the whole warehouse is watching him expectantly. He spots the car poor old Richie must’ve been working on, a sleek-looking black Ford Mustang, its’ hood open and insides exposed to anyone with an eye for these things. Dean doesn’t let himself become distracted, and rummages roughly through the workspace, searches for loose tiles or any other hiding places, but finds nothing incriminating. Figures. He sighs in frustration, full well knowing that this is probably a huge waste of his time, but thanks to his stubbornness, he’s gotta see this through now. Blue eyes flash in Dean’s mind, filled with sadness, not for the first time this morning. 

“Stop it,” he murmurs to himself, to get his head back in the game. All distractions are dangerous while Dean’s hunting, but he can’t seem to shake the heaviness that’s almost physically weighing him down. 

Dean decides to give this place one more chance and heads for the office, climbing the concrete stairs quietly. He slips the gun free from his jeans, the weight of the Colt in his hand grounding him soothingly, takes cover against the wall to listen for any noise inside the office. It’s quiet. The silence feels almost deafening, but Dean can’t sense anyone’s presence in the room. He heads inside, gun ready. Empty. As he thought. There’s a messy desk in the center, filled with papers, tools and office supplies, and an old computer. Several cabinets are lined along the corners of the room. Dean sweeps the room dutifully, but even his trained eye can’t find any dirty secrets the victim might’ve hidden there. He sighs again, stops in the middle of the room, letting his eyes fall on the old computer. He belatedly notices that the power button on the monitor flashes blue every few seconds. That catches Dean’s interest. Has someone been here recently? He walks to the door and lets his sharp gaze roam over the hall beneath him once more. The place is like a grave. Undisturbed and dusty. 

”Get your shit together, man,” Dean scolds himself, turns back around, shaking his head. Maybe there’s something on the computer. That’s when he feels it. The pinpricks ghosting over his skin, how the hair on the back of his neck rise in alert. He’s not alone. Dean’s muscles tense immediately, and he lets out a steadying breath. The next few seconds happen in a blur. He twists around, gun aimed at whatever threat he’s facing, and comes face to face with a tall, bulky man in a green overall, standing two feet from him. What’s most striking is his eyes, shining bright blue, although the look in them is that of a dead man. Instinctively, he raises his gun, fires two shots from almost point blank straight into the man’s heart, who doesn’t even flinch, even though a red spot starts spreading on the fabric. _Okay, definitely not a human,_ Dean manages to think and _fuck, he’s fast,_ before he’s yanked forward by his collar by impossibly strong grip, spun around, feet sliding and kicking, clawing and _fuck,_ when did he lose his gun? 

The man pushes him out of the door with one-handed death grip on his throat and into the railing with rattling force, teeth bared. The metal presses painfully on Dean’s back and there’s a sharp twinge under his ribs, which he has no time to worry about, because he’s fumbling for the angel blade on his belt, fingers slipping, all the while trying to hold the huge man at bay and from choking him. He manages to get a grip and pulls the blade out, striking out blindly. The blade connects with flesh, buries somewhere in the man’s chest he hopes, who roars out in rage and pain, but is still very much alive. But the arm on his throat loosens and Dean shakes loose, drawing breath hungrily, yanking the blade free, _fuck, it wasn’t deep enough._ That realization hits Dean like a brick, that instant knowledge that if he doesn’t get this fucker now, he’s screwed. He looks into the other man’s eyes, startled to find out that they’re bleeding, along with his nose and ears, steady rivulets of blood running down his face. Dean abandons the thought with that, instead he lunges forward, aiming at the heart now, when he’s pushed back forcefully by some sort of blast of power. Dean manages to stay up, but before he has the time to find his footing again, a huge fist mows him down with the force of a hurricane, reverberating in his skull and stunning him, and he’s falling, falling down the stairs, powerless to stop it. His ankle does this sickening crunching noise when it twists under him, and the time before the rest of his body collides with the sharp edges of the stairs feels like forever. Dean crashes hard on the bottom of the stairs on his stomach with a sharp cry, all air just punched right out of him. He tries to inhale shakily, all attempts just pathetic wheezes, and his body refuses to obey him, every muscle and bone screaming in agony. He’s fucked, and he knows it. If he still had the First Blade, the situation would be reversed, the treacherous thought passes through his addled mind, he wouldn’t be sprawled on the fucking ground and dying.

The sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs bring Dean back in the _now¸_ and he succeeds in turning to his other side, ignoring the cries of his abused body with a breathless grunt, his desperate goal to get up right this fucking second and kick this fucker’s ass, but before he can get his limbs working, rough hands turn Dean back on his back. The man stands before him, face bloodied and impassive with his ice blue eyes, and he could finish Dean with one move, but his movements are oddly jerky, like his body is barely hanging on. 

“I’ve seen you now,” the man gasps out, voice all _wrong_ , every tortured word fighting its way out of his bloodied mouth. 

“You are...unclean.” And he kneels unsteadily, places a trembling hand on Dean’s chest and he tries to bat it away, tries to push himself away from the man weakly, when an electric shock rips through his body, leaves his muscles twitching uncontrollably. He gasps, blindly feeling around for something he can use as a weapon, _where the fuck is the angel blade?_ Dean faintly sees the man straighten up, body shaking like he’s given his all, and then suddenly there’s a squelching sound and blood and gore showered on his clothes and face, _everywhere_ , and Dean has to shield his eyes from it.

He opens his eyes quickly, only to find their impromptu combat arena transformed into a slaughterhouse. There’s virtually nothing left of the man, large splashes of blood and bits of skin, muscles and innards splattered everywhere. The stench of massacre is so strong Dean feels ill, and his clothes are soaked through with red. Somehow, he survived this. The feeling of relief cuts through the haze and he looks around, seeing the angel blade laying few feet from him. That makes him smile weakly, reaching for the blade but not quite managing it. 

“Thanks a lot,” Dean mutters to it, voice hoarse and shaky. Now that he’s starting to come down from the high of the fight, pain is becoming more and more insistent in various places. His ankle is throbbing fiercely, but the sharp pain under his ribs reminds him of itself with every shallow breath, burrowing into his innards. His whole body hurts like a motherfucker. Dean wants nothing but close his eyes and succumb into the darkness that’s creeping closer and closer. He almost does, but he forces his eyes open, steels his nerves, because he has to move, can’t stay here-

“Sam,” Dean whispers, starts patting his pockets with uncoordinated hands, accidentally hits the painful spot on his side, feels the warm wetness of the jacket- has he been stabbed? He tries to lift his head to see, but that makes his vision blur around the edges. Dean stubbornly holds on, prods the spot with his fingers, slick with fresh blood, finding a small puncture wound and then he has to bite his lower lip to keep himself from cursing out loud. Knife, he knows instinctively. _When?_ Dean blinks slowly, trying to remember if he ever saw a weapon in the brute’s hand, replaying fragments of the fight in his mind. He can’t make sense of it anymore, the details slip from his mind and warp to greyish, stuttered images, until his mind is just replaying how wrong the blue in the man’s eyes looked. 

Dean opens his eyes, not sure when he closed them, noting suddenly how cold he is. It’s the shock, he thinks numbly. The blood on his clothes has started to cool down, and the pain presses him like a vice. He’s gonna die here if doesn’t do something. Sam. Right. He needs to call Sam. The phone is luckily still in his pocket, and Dean lifts it closer, almost dropping it because his fingers aren’t cooperating anymore. His hands shake when he presses the call button, and he sends a small prayer that his brother will pick up the phone this time. The dial tone beeps, and then there’s a click. 

“Dean?” The familiar voice on the speaker makes Dean almost cry with relief. 

“Sam,” he chokes, voice lacking any strength.

“Dean? Where are you?” Sam sounds hesitant, like he knows something isn’t right but isn’t able to pinpoint the problem yet. 

“I…ran into some trouble. Can’t move. You need to... come and pick me up.” Every word is more difficult than the last one, but Dean knows giving up now isn’t an option. 

“Are you hurt? How badly? Give me the address. I’ll come right now.” The increasing panic in Sam’s voice makes his speech harder to follow, and Dean stops to process the fast-stringed words.

“Dean! Where are you?” Sam repeats urgently, when Dean doesn’t answer right away. 

“I, uh…Sheridan Road. Car-Mart. Warehouse.” Fuck it hurts. What wouldn’t he give for some whiskey now. 

”I’ll be there in five minutes. Hold on.” Sam tries to sound like he’s not freaking out, but Dean knows better. He closes his eyes, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah, Sammy.” The call ends and Dean lets the phone slip away from his hand, and it clatters down onto the bloody floor. He has to hold on until Sam comes. He places a hand sloppily on the wound, ignoring the pain, feeling the blood sluggishly trickle under his fingers. He thinks about Cas. His wild, messy hair. How Dean’s fingers run clumsily through it and Cas doesn’t mind it. How his nose scrunches when he smiles. His smiles are often the softest things, hesitant at first and only reserved for him. That’s at least what Dean likes to think. The way Cas looks at him and the whole room becomes electrified, and how much that makes Dean want him. The sex. The sex is awesome but even more than that, Dean likes the little things. The way Cas says his name. There’s always a story there, an emotion behind it. The way their legs slot together in bed, muscled calves all tangled up with each other. 

A loud crash brings Dean back ruthlessly from his hazy reveries. He blinks, turning his head toward the sound, trying to see. He hears hasty footsteps on the other side of the warehouse that he would recognize in his sleep, but the vast space distorts the sound and makes it harder to pinpoint them. 

“Dean!” Sam bellows somewhere unseen, going back and forth between the cars, trying to find him. Dean swallows, his throat dry as sandpaper, mouth tasting like blood. When he opens his mouth to speak, his voice sounds so wrecked and weak he wants to grimace. 

“Here, Sam.” Sam, the sharp-eared hunter catches the words, and the footsteps come hurriedly closer, then abruptly stop like he hit a brick wall. Dean stretches his neck to catch sight of him. 

“Dean?” Sam asks with a small voice, frozen in place, pale as a sheet. He’s gripping his gun like a lifeline. Dean realizes how this must look for Sam, the blood-spattered walls and floor, his brother lying on the floor, soaked in blood. 

“It’s not mine,” he slurs. Sam’s shoulders relax a little and he edges closer, stepping carefully over all the bits and pieces of human meat flung in every direction. 

“What happened?” Sam kneels next to him, searching for visible wounds on his body, eyes fixing on Dean’s hand that still is pressing against his ribs. 

“Got mauled by a mutant freak. He stabbed me, broke my ankle.” Dean forces his voice to steady. Sam needs to see him holding on. He already feels so powerless just lying down on the floor, with barely enough strength to move his arms. Standing up is going to be a bitch.

“What the fuck were you thinking? Coming here alone? You could’ve died!” Sam starts lecturing him, pushing Dean’s hand away from the wound and cutting the fabric with a knife he conjured up from somewhere, probably from his boot. _I’m not sure I’m not dying._ Dean wants to protest everything but in truth, he’s too tired for that. Careful fingers prod the wound like hot pokers and he flinches, vision going white. He feels suddenly very ill.

“Sammy,” Dean warns feebly, attempting to push his brother’s hands away shakily. Sam doesn’t relent, grasping his hands and guides them away, shushing him. Dean lets his hands fall limply, exhaling shakily. Cold sweat is coating Dean’s skin, gathering under his upper lip and making him shiver. He’s running on fumes and he ain’t got much left.

“I’m gonna dress the wound, okay?” Dean nods, hears a fabric ripping and then the prodding is back, and he tries to endure it, teeth clenched. Sam talks just as much for Dean’s benefit as for his own and maybe, just maybe, it manages to distract him a little from the abuse he’s suffering right now. 

“I need to lift you up now, put the bandage in place. You with me?” Sam asks, tension straining his voice. _No,_ Dean wants to answer, he wants to get up himself and dust the imaginary dirt off his jacket like nothing happened, not to lay on the ground like a fucking Resusci Anne Mannequin. 

“I’d rath…rather not be conscious for that,” Dean huffs, trying for nonchalant humor and failing, hard. 

“Shut up. You got yourself into this mess, so you’re going to help me to fix it.” Sam slides his hand under Dean’s neck, looks for confirmation that this is okay. Dean exhales shallowly, readying himself. 

“On three. One...two...three.” Getting up seemed like a simple idea, but now that Sam’s lifting him slowly, it sort of feels like getting stabbed again. Dean tries to help by pushing himself forward with trembling arms, swearing under his breath in a steady stream, but his strength gives out halfway there and he just sags against his brother, panting harshly. Sam grips him tightly against his chest, and Dean lets his head loll on his shoulder, battling nausea and raw pain hammering every nerve of his body.

“You’re doing great, just a second…” Sam’s encouragement fades in the background slowly and Dean tries to blink away the enclosing darkness. _Sorry brother_ , he says, at least he tries to, but he can’t resist the pull to go under anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh crap shit is getting real! The day when I don't feel inspired to write some hurt!Dean, is the day I die.


	4. Chapter 4

The first sound he hears when he emerges from unconsciousness, is the incessant beeping. He listens to it, the steady sound pulling him further away from comfortable nothingness with each irritating blip. After a while he becomes aware how his body feels like lead, limbs weighing him down. He’s lying on a soft bed and everything smells of disinfectant. He fights to open his eyes, but they won’t cooperate. Finally, he manages it, taking in the soft light and white, sterile walls. Dean blinks slowly. A hospital, he thinks dully. Why is he in a hospital? He contemplates asking this aloud, but his throat feels swollen and dry as a desert, and he licks his lips. 

“Dean? You awake?” A familiar voice speaks up right beside him, and he hears rustling, when his brother’s shifting in his seat. Sam. Sam’s here. He gathers the strength to turn his head, to find anchor in his brother’s presence. The whole room sways with the movement and it makes him queasy. Dean swallows again, inhales deeply to settle himself and the nausea passes slowly. Sam looks haggard, hair disheveled and bags under his eyes, but he still smiles when their eyes meet. Dean still can’t shake the fogginess in his mind, only recalling some flashes of a fight that happened. Was he there? Was Sam there? He frowns, trying to formulate the right questions in his mind, but it’s all a tangled-up mess, impossible to separate individual thoughts. 

”You’re in a hospital. You had a stab wound, a broken ankle and some very interesting bruises, so you’ll probably be staying horizontal for a few days,” Sam starts explaining wearily, sensing Dean’s confusion. “They managed to close the wound and put a cast on your leg, but you got out of the surgery few hours ago, so that’s why you still feel like you’ve been drugged.” It takes time for Dean to process Sam’s words, but he starts remembering little bits and pieces there. He was searching for something. A big guy. Falling down the stairs, how the guy exploded. A world of hurt. 

”Are...are you okay?” Dean’s voice gives out halfway, reducing to a whisper. Sam gets up at once, guiding a glass with a straw to his dry lips and Dean sips the cool water gratefully, too tired to mind the fact that he can’t summon the strength to care for himself. 

“I’m okay, Dean.” Sam says softly, slumping back in his uncomfortable-looking chair once Dean has had his fill. “But you scared the hell out of me. Finding you like that…You’d think once was enough.” Sam’s voice cracks and he has to look away to regain his composure. His admission hits Dean like a bucket of cold water and everything becomes clearer and sharper, as his mind catches up with everything that’s happened and is happening. Sam found him again, bloodied and dying, had to carry him out of that building, not knowing if he had to say his goodbyes _again._

”Sammy, I’m so sorry.” The apology tumbles out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop it. Sam looks at him, baffled. 

“It’s not-“

“Yes, it is. I let you down. I failed you. Again and again. Christ sakes, I almost _killed_ you. I almost killed my own brother. I wasn’t worth saving and still, you saved me, and all I can think about now is that I can never make up for it.” He stops to exhale shakily, blinks his eyes furiously to expel the unwelcome tears there. There’s a ball of anxiety sitting tightly on his chest, making it impossible to continue.

“Dean-“ 

“Shut up, you know how the pain meds make me,” Dean cuts him off, suddenly embarrassed of his outburst. This would be the point where he usually would storm out, but Sam wears that look that tells Dean he’s just getting started. Dean turns his head away in protest. He doesn’t deserve any words of forgiveness, but at the same time, there’s a part of him that yearns for Sam to absolve him. 

“Listen to me. It was an impossible situation, you know that, right? And you didn’t kill me. You fought the Mark and won. I will always give it my everything to save you, as I know you’ll do for me. You’re my _brother,_ so you have nothing to make up for.” Dean stubbornly keeps his head turned, but he can hear the honest thickness in Sam’s voice and it makes his heart clench. He wants to believe that Sam believes in what he says, because he can’t. 

“Is this what you’ve been carrying with you since we got rid of the Mark? That you can’t redeem yourself?” Sam continues slowly, like he’s figuring this whole thing out. 

“I don’t think that’s current news, Sam. Comes with the package.” Dean tries to dodge Sam’s question, because trust him to be so transparent that his brother can read him like an open book. Sam sighs heavily. Dean’s constant self-blame is a subject that Sam has tried to approach many times, and it always makes him clam up faster than shell. Sam means good, but no amount of talking can fix the things he has fucked up. The only way Dean knows to handle this, is just to barrel forward, trying to evade the voices that keep saying that he didn’t do enough, he should’ve been better, how he failed. It’s like navigating in a minefield. You never know what step might trigger the onslaught.

“Then what about Cas?” Sam changes the subject.

“What about him?” Dean asks, staying on his guard.

“Did you drive him away for that same reason?” 

“He left me! He said he was done saving me, whatever that means. He couldn’t wait to pack his bags and say adios.” Dean raises his voice and regrets it at once, when the wound on his side sharply reminds him of its presence. Ah. He was wondering when it would start hurting. 

“Look, I’m not saying what he did was right. But you’ve been doing nothing but pushing us both away ever since you got back, so I kinda get it that Cas probably thought you actually wanted him gone. I know he didn’t want to leave you, but he thought it would be easier for you, since you couldn’t even look at him.” Sam tries to convey calmness in his voice, but there’s an accusatory tone underneath it and Dean’s first instinct is to bristle and defend himself, yet Sam’s words hit him hard. _Wouldn’t even look at him._ He stops to reel his last encounters with Cas, replaying every angry remark and the open hurt Cas expressed in response and it all just…falls into place. And he feels like the biggest asshole of the universe.

“Fuck.” Dean whispers, with the dawning realization that Cas wasn’t the one to leave, he fucking made him do it. He raises a heavy arm, the iv-line tugging his hand, and runs it over his face, winces when his fingers brush a large bruise on his temple. He wouldn’t look at Cas. He would barely speak to him. He got angry when Cas wanted to help, even though it was the very nature of the angel. And there was such profound sorrow in Cas, but he wouldn’t speak up. Maybe the unsaid things between them were part of the problem. They’ve never been good with words and it’s always driven them further apart, harder to get back up every time. Dean needs to fix this. He doesn’t know how, but he has to.

“Fuck,” he repeats for emphasis, because there’s nothing else he knows how to say. Sam lets him mull it over for few minutes, before speaking up with a hint of humor, mixed with frustration in his voice. 

“Now can you please fix it, so I can stop doing couples therapy with you two?” 

“It shouldn’t be your business in the first place,” Dean mutters, irritated but managing to summon a weak smile on his lips. He isn’t sure whether he should feel glad or annoyed that his brother is so invested in his love life. 

“No, it shouldn’t, but I can’t just watch you ruin the only good thing you have in your life.” 

“Jesus, Sam. Did you even call him?” 

“Yeah, and he almost crashed his car when he turned back on the highway. I convinced him to scout the place out, why waste the trip, you know? But he was freaking out about you. I promised to call once you woke up.” Dean wants to shake his head in exasperation, but that seems like too much effort at the moment. A fond feeling blooms in his chest and it softens the knotted anxiety a little. He’s settling for the latter option; it’s definitely a menace that Sam wants to meddle with their affairs. Then he sobers up quickly.

“It’s not safe for him there. Those angels, they’re out for blood. I didn’t even hear that fucker coming until he had rammed me into the railing.

“Angels? So you’re sure about that?” 

“Yeah, blue eyes, impossible strength, the whole nine yards. There was something very off about him though…” Dean trails off, trying to stop his speech from slurring. His energy is waning, and it gets more difficult to concentrate with each passing minute. 

“Like what?” 

“It felt like a…husk. Like it took all of angel’s power to just keep his body running. They’re jumping from body to body because they can’t access their true vessels. And they…they keep burning through them…but why?” 

“Did you find anything else there? We need to find something that connects all of these victims.” Sam is right back in his element, but Dean feels last of his strength fading fast.

“No. The place was squeaky clean.” He forces out, blinking slowly. Then he remembers.

“Fuck. My weapons. They’re...they’re still there.” Cold dread washes over Dean, and he looks at Sam pleadingly, who gives him a reassuring smile. 

“Don’t worry. All they’ll find are the exploded bits, but not a trace of you. I had to throw your clothes away too, that would’ve been uh, difficult to explain otherwise. But I got it covered.” Dean sinks back in the bed in relief, letting heaviness overtake his limbs, numbness spreading slowly through them. It seems like a terrible effort to stay awake all of a sudden. 

“Thanks…” He mutters, closes his eyes. 

”Anytime, Dean.” He hears, but it sounds like it’s coming from very far away and he wonders if Sam’s leaving.

* * *

Dean’s not sure what wakes him up the second time. All that he knows is that he’s awake, mind clearer and throat parched like a desert. He blinks in the darkness, trying to orient himself. Hazy images and conversations pass through his mind. Stab wound, hospital and a lot of meds that makes his head dopy. Right. Dean cautiously inhales, careful not to stretch the muscles in his abdomen, and that’s when he notices the complete absence of sound. None of the machines are beeping, all the lights are off. A prickling sensation runs along his arms, his neck, like sharp, cold needles. Something’s definitely off. Dean strains his eyes, trying to find Sam, but he only can make out the shape of the empty chair on his right. 

“Sam?” He croaks, needing the reassurance that he’s alone. That’s when his eyes catch miniscule movement in the corner of the room, and he knows instinctively he’s in trouble. Sam isn’t here. He makes out the figure of a thin woman creeping closer, and he holds his breath, instantly mapping out the escape routes, taking stock of his body, muscles tensing. His limbs feel sluggish and weak, and there’s the uncomfortable pull of stitches on his side. There’s no way Dean can fight. He needs to _run._

“Who the fuck are you?” He asks, trying to buy few more minutes for himself while his body wakes up.

“I waited. This one can hold me, you see,” the woman speaks, completely ignoring Dean. Her voice is like dry twigs, and she steps forward, staggering slightly. Her footsteps aren’t making any sound. Dean can’t hear her breathing. And in her hand, something glints in the darkness, and yep, that’s his cue to run. 

Body firing up with adrenaline, Dean rolls off the bed in one fluid motion, but his legs are still asleep, and he suddenly finds himself on his knees, arms barely catching his fall. The jarring impact makes him gasp out in pain, the small noise drowned instantaneously by a loud shriek behind him. He struggles to his feet, _no time for whining, come on,_ faintly feels the sting when the iv-line gets ripped out when he barrels forward, or tries to, the cast on his left leg making his running clumsy and slow. The door is only few steps away, and Dean rams into it, swinging it open and he almost loses his balance again. He needs to block the door. There are some chairs meant for visitors right next to him and he grabs one, throws himself against the door, jamming the handle with the chair, desperation making his hands shake and fumble. There’s no resistance from the other side of the door, and Dean’s not sure if the fucker isn’t just waiting for him to tire himself out. 

Gasping for breath, Dean takes couple of tentative steps backwards, risks a glance in both directions, noting that the corridor completely dark and empty. What the fuck did this angel do, fry the whole hospital to get to Dean? The whole thing feels like a beginning of a bad horror movie, and he has no other choice than to let this play out. There’s complete silence from inside the room, but Dean isn’t going to stick around waiting for the psycho angel to blast through the door. Letting his instincts take over, he starts hobbling in the direction where he thinks the exit might be. And he deliberately doesn’t take note of the complete lack of other people.

Dean’s vision momentarily swims out of focus, but he refuses to slow down, feeling his wounds more painfully with every passing second as the pain meds start to fade from his bloodstream. There’s a warm, damp patch of fresh blood on his hospital gown that makes the fabric stick to his skin, and every thump of the cast against the cold floor jars his broken ankle, but he has no time to think about that. His rapid heartbeat and sharp exhalations roar in his ears, drowning out the terrifying silence. 

Dean’s almost at the end of the corridor, regarding every closed door he passes with heightened alarm, but no one jumps at him from the shadows. _Where the fuck are all the people? Are they inside the rooms, waiting to escape, or has this fucker massacred everyone?_

That’s when there’s a loud clatter behind him, and he can’t help but to turn around and look, seeing the now mangled chair on the floor and the doors, wide open, waiting for the angel to make his grand entrance. Dean doesn’t want to wait for that, he swerves left, following a narrower corridor further away, littered with hospital beds and medical equipment. There aren’t enough words to describe how much Dean hates this feeling of helplessness, and he would give his liver to have his Colt or the angel blade in his hand again. _Not that it helped the last time,_ he recalls glumly. But Sam is god knows where and hopefully okay, so Dean’s alone in this. Phantom itch throbs in his right arm suddenly, and for a heartbeat, he wishes he still had the Mark.

He glances behind him, but the corridor is empty, no footsteps, nothing. That doesn’t make him one bit relieved. The asshole is just toying with him. 

Reaching the other end of the corridor, he spots the exit sign and turns left again, only managing to take couple of steps before he stumbles, nausea hitting him out of nowhere with dizzying force. 

“Holy fuck…” Dean mutters, blindly reaching for the wall and he leans on it heavily, legs trembling under his weight. Cold sweat breaks through his skin, running down his temples and along his spine, and for a moment he can’t do anything but breathe through it, the rasping sound pounding in his ears. His side feels like there’s a kitchen knife buried in there again. He fights to stay upright, blinking sweat from his eyes, biting his lower lip against the waves of pain so hard he can feel the skin breaking. Taking a step forward feels like an impossible task, and Dean doesn’t have long before his body shuts down, he feels it. Change of plans. He just needs to lure the angel close enough.

With shaky fingers, he reaches for the wound, getting his fingers wet with blood and starts painting a circle, drawing the angel banishing sigil from memory. Every line is etched into Dean’s mind, with all the times he’s had to use it, all the near deaths they’ve avoided. He wets his fingers again, faintly aware that his hospital gown is soaked with blood. It doesn’t feel like so significant right now. Suddenly, a fearful voice cuts through the haze.

“Sir? Are you okay?” Dean’s head snaps towards the voice, his vision swaying; there’s a short, petite, middle-aged nurse walking hesitantly towards him, eyeing him worriedly. Oh fuck no, a civilian is the last thing that he needs right now, he can’t even look after himself, how can he keep her safe-

“Sir?” The nurse repeats and Dean snaps out of it, resolution filling him, he’s going to keep her safe, because that’s his job, and who cares about few little injuries, he’s had worse. He stops painting the sigil for a second, holding his hand out. 

“Listen, I have no time to explain, but it’s not safe here. You need to go back or- or hide in one of these rooms, okay?” Belatedly he realizes that the nurse is looking at his bloody hand and the incomplete sigil with wary suspicion. Shit. Slowly, she drags her eyes from the gory sight and regards him with newfound blank professionalism.

“Sir, I think it’s better you would come with me. Can you walk?” 

“Okay, I can explain this-“, Dean gestures to the bloody sigil on the wall hurriedly, “-later, but right now you’re in dan-"

He can see the nurse’s eyes widening in fear, fixed somewhere behind him, but he reacts a second too late, only starting to turn around when he registers bony fingers scraping against his scalp and his head is slammed hard against the wall before him, fast like a lightning. There’s a moment when everything just fades away before Dean’s yanked back to consciousness by loud shrieking. It feels like a thunderstorm inside his skull, all sharp twinges and hollow ringing, and he slumps forward, held up only by an iron grip on his hair, twisting and pulling it. 

No. He has to fight. 

Dean blinks furiously, body scrambling to balance itself, his hand grasping for something, a thin wrist, tightly locked in his hair. He tries to claw and kick and hit her, growling and grunting, but he can’t twist around or weaken the adamant hold in his scalp. Her other arm has lodged itself around his throat, and Dean has to fight for air. Eyes blearily focusing on the sigil in front of him, he brings his hand up laboriously, stubbornly starts painting the details outside the circle, a final fuck you because he knows there’s no way out of this, all the while fighting her with all that he’s got. Dean distantly hears the horrified screams of the nurse and the angry growl of the angel, _NO,_ feels the fingers tightening in his hair, and the angel slams his head forward the second time. The impact reverberates in his skull, a loud snap, and everything is black and grey and light and pain. He opens his mouth to curse, shout, anything, but only a high-pitched whimper escapes his lips, and he scrambles to hold on to something, his legs giving out underneath him. Angry hands yank him back up, clutching at the fabric, and then he’s getting tossed forward, limbs like a ragdoll. 

Dean feels weightless for a second, and the time it takes his body to connect with the floor seems like forever. He finally crashes down hard, and he might lose few seconds of awareness, because when he comes back to himself, there’s only pain and loud, erratic gasps he first doesn’t realize are his own. He’s lying down on the cold floor face first, cheek pressing against the tiles, limbs in disarray. Something warm and thick is running down his forehead, pooling under his eye. He instinctively tries to curl in on himself, but _fuck,_ he almost passes out again when the movement jostles his bleeding side the wrong way. So, he stays still, taking even, shallow breaths, fighting the graying edges of his vision. 

Slowly, he becomes aware of the now quieted sobs of the nurse behind him. Shit. He has to lure the angel away.

“Your soul is blackened with sin. I can’t understand why they let you live.” The angel speaks softly from further away, but her voice carries out like it’s being spoken directly to Dean’s ear. His focus sharpens on the sounds coming from behind him, senses working furiously to pinpoint her location, but turning his head seems like a monumental task right now, vision swimming in and out of focus. 

“I must destroy it, for the wail of it is like poison to anyone who can hear it.” It doesn’t get him that this fucker is kicking Dean’s ass to the moon without breaking a sweat, it’s the fact that Dean can’t sense her at all, and even now he can’t hear the angel’s footsteps. He feels vulnerable. _Run. Protect the nurse._

Summoning the last remains of his anger, Dean lets out a furious growl through his tightly clenched teeth, mustering the flicker of newfound strength to get on his elbows and knees. His body protests fiercely, but Dean drags himself forward using anger as his fuel, muscles trembling with the effort, ignoring the screeching pain. And even through the haze of disarray and agony, he wants nothing but to feel the First Blade in his hand again, feel the power running through his veins. A junkie is a junkie. He can almost feel it, the remnant of an intoxicating song he used to hear. But he’s weak now. And his arm feels so incomplete.

“Fuck you, you piece of shit, I’m going to kill you…” He snarls, drawing strength from each, frustrated word. If only he had the blade. 

“I must commend you on your perseverance. You simply refuse to yield. Even though you’re running away.” The angel’s voice sounds almost like it’s coming from underwater, far away. But at least Dean’s pathetic escape attempt keeps her focus on him. Dean doesn’t look back, he keeps crawling forward, slow but steady. The world is narrowed down to the dim light coming from somewhere further ahead, rapid breathing and the burn of his muscles. Just few more feet, then he can rest, Dean tells himself. Then abruptly there’s a screeching, high-pitched sound that echoes from the walls, and his eardrums almost shatter from the pained scream coming from behind him. _What the hell,_ Dean thinks or mouths the words aloud, he’s not sure. He covers his ears, the shrill sound drowning out his own gasps. A bright blue light illuminates the whole corridor and blinds him momentarily. The scream dies down. Instinctively shielding himself, Dean twists around, and when the darks spots fade from his vision, he sees probably the most welcome sight in his entire life – Sam and the tip of the angel blade sticking out the angel’s chest, and the last, flickering remains of the divine light in her eyes, until it dies down. Sam pulls the blade back with a squelch and the frail body of a woman crashes on the floor. 

There’s a silence for few beats, where Sam is looking at the body and the nurse and then Dean, who fights for breath, so he can tell how goddamn good it is to see his brother. He manages a lopsided smile and he sees Sam’s shoulders slump in relief in return. The nurse has fallen quiet, staring at the stilled body in numb disbelief. Sam spares a glance at her, but then his sole focus is on Dean, stepping around the body, ready to run to him. Dean shakes his head vaguely, nodding towards the woman. He can wait, and she needs to be calmed down before she flips. Sam complies his silent order, however reluctantly. He kneels by the woman.

“You okay?” Sam asks her, eyes flicking expertly over her for any visible damage, and the nurse slowly directs her gaze on him. 

“Y-yeah, but you-you-,” she stammers, pointing vaguely at the body, but Sam cuts her short, hands gesturing soothingly, his whole demeanor softening in a way that compels most of people to stand down. The nurse isn’t an exception; she focuses her sole attention to Sam like a beacon. 

“I will explain in a minute, but right now, I need to check on my brother, and I need you to stay calm, okay?” The nurse just stares at him blankly, then finally nodding once. And then Sam is already on Dean’s side, crouching beside him. 

“Dean?” Sam immediately asks, the calm façade cracking, worry leaking through. His eyes are wide, something frantic bubbling underneath. Dean has to concentrate on holding his upper body up, so he only spares Sam a groan that almost sounds like a _yeah._ He tries to plant his hands wider to hold himself up, but his strength is waning, and Sam takes note of that at once, reaching under his armpit, and he hoists Dean carefully upward, using his own body as support. Dean’s side twinges something nasty, sucking his breath away, but he tries to hide it as best he can. Sam notices, of course.

“Sorry,” his brother whispers hastily, but Dean ignores that.

“Help me sit,” Dean orders weakly instead, nodding towards the wall next to him. He hates it that he has to ask that, he hates it that he can’t do it himself. Sam complies without a word, manhandling him gently towards the wall and helping him settle, whispering encouragements that Dean can’t make sense of. Every little movement and jolt travels down his side, sending electric shocks of pain into his ankle. He tries to take some of his weight as Sam helps him to lean down, swallows down a sharp cry that almost escapes his throat when the wound feels like it’s getting ripped open from the inside in the process. He feels Sam’s hands on his shoulders, heavy, holding him up. His head hurts. 

“Are you still with me? Not thinking of passing out again?” Dean focuses on Sam’s steady voice, raises his throbbing head gingerly to look him in the eyes. 

“No. I’m- I’m good. Just, ah, give me…a minute.” He sounds like he’s out of breath, voice uneven and shaky. He needs to pull himself together. Sam needs him. The brother in question shoots him a look that’s equal parts of annoyance and worry. Dean takes few steadying breaths, trying to clear his head, following his brother’s movements when he rips a strip from his shirt, tears it in two and gives the second rag to Dean. 

“Keep the pressure.” Sam directs his hand to his abdomen, and Dean very carefully presses the cloth to the wound, sucks in a sharp breath when the contact feels like burning coals on his skin. Sam watches him closely, and Dean swallows down any further complaints he would’ve liked to scream out loud, holding his gaze steadily. 

“You’re a stubborn asshole.” Sam shakes his head and leans in to clean out the slowly clotting blood on Dean’s face. 

“We-we need to go, Sammy,” Dean rasps, letting Sam work in peace. Sam doesn’t answer him, instead he focuses on wiping the blood off with careful, long sweeps, and soon the cloth is soaked through. Sam swipes over the wound on his forehead and it stings, making Dean flinch involuntarily. His brother doesn’t apologize this time.

“You hear me? Everyone is in-in danger here, especially me. We can’t…uh, defend ourselves.” Dean hears the slight slur in his voice, tangling the letters together. Sam looks at him sharply. 

“Where would we go? And how would you defend yourself, by bleeding on them?” 

“Cas can help.” 

“If you can survive that long,” Sam says darkly, shaking his head in refusal.

“Sammy, please. You-you know it’s the…only way.” Dean runs out of breath to speak, but he doesn’t break the eye contact. He sees the uncertainty and despair on his brother’s face, and muscles jump in Sam’s jaw when he tries to figure a way out of this. They are interrupted by hesitant footsteps behind Sam, and the nurse appears in his field of vision, hovering over Sam’s broad shoulder. 

“H-he needs medical attention. We need to, uh, stop the bleeding and then find a doctor.” She starts to sound more like a seasoned nurse again, voice gaining strength and certitude as she continues speaking. Sam exchanges looks with Dean, and he knows he’s won when Sam sighs in surrender. Dean nods almost imperceptibly. 

“Go get a wheelchair or something,” he murmurs quietly to his brother, who opens his mouth to argue. Fuck, Dean’s too tired to continue this headbutting contest now. 

“Go.” Luckily Sam listens to him. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder in silent reassurance, gets up and takes off in long strides. Almost immediately, the nurse takes his place, starting to assess the damage, still looking shaky and avoiding Dean’s eyes. There are deep lines edged on her face, and her blonde hair is in disarray. She digs something from the pocket of her uniform, conjures out a clean cloth. She touches Dean’s hand lightly, silently telling him to move it. Dean complies, still holding the bloody rag in his palm. 

“We need to replace that.” She nods towards the useless rag, and quickly glancing at Dean, as if asking for permission, and presses the fresh cloth to the wound. Dean’s body seizes, but he refuses to complain aloud. Everything hurts, so it doesn’t matter. He can take it. Cold sweat gathers on his skin, but he lets her hold the cloth.

“Once he comes back, we need to go where they’re gathering mobile patients. The whole hospital is in blackout, and I was sent to find any wandering patients. It-it’s a chaos, the lines were jammed, and nobody knew what was going on. But I don’t know what was that-that _thing_ and how was she doing all of those things? I-I mean, Jesus, she just appeared behind you, out of nowhere, and that light? This can’t be real?” The nurse starts to speak more rapidly, stumbling over her own words, and she directs her gaze on Dean, almost panicked. 

“Listen, uh, what’s your name?”

“Susan.”

“Listen, Susan. That thing was something bad and dangerous. And-and it wants to kill me, and no one is safe if I stay here. So, you need to let me and my brother go, okay?” Dean tries to make this as simple and smooth as possible, but there’s no way to sugarcoat a bloodthirsty angel on a murder spree. 

“But...you killed it already. What the hell was that thing?” Susan looks at the body suspiciously, still clearly riled up. Dean closes his eyes for a second to figure out how much he wants to tell the nurse. Right now, they just need to get out quickly.

“That was, uh, something which had special powers. But she’s gone dark and is killing innocent people. Me and my brother are trying to stop it. But we need to get out of here.” Dean stops, feeling the fatigue wash over him. Just a little bit more. He catches the uncertainty and disbelief on Susan’s face, but he doesn’t have anything else to give to her. 

“So, I’m just supposed to let you go? What about your wound? What about the body?”

“Well frankly…you can’t stop us from leaving. Sam can take care of me. What we ask of you is that you don’t tell anyone about us or what you saw here. Think you could do that for us, Susan?” Dean tries to flash one of his disarming smiles, but it probably looks plainly morbid on him. It’s getting harder to focus, the details of her face slowly blurring and fraying around the edges. Suddenly there’s some noise and hurried footsteps on his left, which Dean easily recognizes as Sam’s. 

“Hey, how is he?” Sam asks.

“I’m right here, Sammy,” Dean interjects sharply, but the slur in his voice makes his authority less convincing. Holding eye contact seems like a feat at the moment, so he detachedly concentrates on his idle, bloodied hands resting uselessly at his sides. There’s a lot of blood on them, caked in the creases of his palm, fresh blood that leaves careless stains everywhere on the floor and his gown. Maybe leaving the hospital isn’t such a good idea. But hey, Winchesters thrive on bad ideas.

“Not good. But, uh, I can’t stop you from leaving, so we need to get him into the wheelchair.” Susan ignores Dean completely, choosing to answer Sam, sounding already a bit more composed. Dean lifts his head, thanks her with a small, shaky smile. The nurse barely notices him, guiding the wheelchair closer. Dean tries to think about anything but the inevitable manhandling he’s about to get. He wishes Cas was here. 

To soon there are hands snaking under his armpits and he groans. 

“You ready, Dean?” Sam asks, emphatic, right in his ear. 

“I was born re-“ they start lifting him slowly and rest of the sentence cuts off abruptly. Snappy comebacks become irrelevant, when he can’t do nothing but try to hold on to his fading consciousness, as they move and lower him down to the chair. Everything becomes gray, static, terrible pain. Dean feels his body slump forward and he’s helpless to stop it, but steady hands grab him and keep him from falling off. Sam and the nurse speak, but it’s too muffled and garbled to understand, and there’s a loud ringing in his ears. His breathing is heavy. He inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Exhales. Rinse and repeat. He’s faintly aware that they’re moving through the dark corridors. 

Cold air hits him suddenly and Dean slowly realizes they’re outside. He opens his eyes, blinks groggily. It’s dark. Sam is pushing the chair forward with determination, towards the rows of cars in the parking lot, their hoods speckled with raindrops. The wheelchair rattles and shakes in the gravel. He feels sick. Like, really sick. He tries to open his mouth and tell as much, but it takes couple of tries to get his lips move in coordination.

“Sammy, stop,” he wheezes, grips the handles just so he can have something to hold on to. Nausea makes his head spin. Apparently, Sam doesn’t hear him, and Dean tries harder, but his stomach muscles cramp and then he’s retching over the side. The chair stops at once and Sam is there, holding him up, soothing words spilling out of his mouth in a steady stream. Dean hears him distantly, but every spasm tears his wound, making his eyes water. Finally, they stop completely, the meager contents of his stomach emptied, and Dean slumps forward, boneless. Sam guides him back gently, squeezing his shoulder compassionately. 

“Better?” 

“No,” Dean rasps out, but he flicks his watery eyes towards his brother, quietly signaling him to move. His mouth tastes like bile and the hospital garb clings to his skin, damp with blood and rain. He feels cold and miserable and his entire body fucking hurts. 

They reach the Impala and seeing her there, the sleek, black and familiar curves, makes Dean feel a little bit better. He reaches out an unsteady hand, touches the wet chrome surface in a silent greeting. Sam allows him this moment, before he starts bustling around, opening the door to the backseat and positioning the wheelchair closer. The transition to the car isn’t any easier than the previous ones; Dean’s got so little juice in the tank, he’s practically a ragdoll that Sam tries to move around without ripping open the seams. He clutches Sam’s arms desperately and refuses to believe that the small, broken whimpers he hears are his own. _Come on Dean, just a little more, man, you gotta help a little._ Once Dean’s safely positioned inside, albeit breathing raggedly, broken ankle stretched out on the leather seat, body rigidly leaning on the on the door, Sam disappears from his field of vision. “I need the first aid kit, now,” he explains curtly, opens the trunk and starts rummaging through things. Dean listens to his frantic rustling, sweaty forehead pressed into the cool glass and it takes all of his strength just to keep his eyes open. His other hand is restlessly twitching against his side, seeking out the wound but he can’t bear to touch it, because _jesus_ it hurts. 

The opposite door swings open and Dean feels the seat cushions dip when Sam stuffs his gigantic body inside. 

“Hey man, you still awake?” The tone is casual but there’s a whole world of repressed fear underneath. Dean slowly directs his gaze to his brother, sees him drawing some sigils on the windows. That alerts him immediately, and he tries to sit up straighter.

“Hey whoa, wh-what are you doing?” 

“We need to hide ourselves from the angels for the time being. Don’t worry, it comes off. And then I’m gonna stitch you up.”

“I can do it myself,” Dean protests weakly, sinking back against the door. Sam shoots him an incredulous look, before putting the finishing touches on the warding symbol.

“Stop it, Dean. You look like a breeze could kill you.” Dean scoffs tiredly in response. Sam starts digging into the first aid kit, fishes out a needle and thread, and then scoots closer. He looks exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and coarse stubble framing his cheeks. 

“When was the last time you slept?” Dean blurts out, disgruntled about the way his voice wavers, betraying his big brother-act. 

“What? Never mind that, I need to fix you now.” Sam grabs the hem of the garb in an attempt to lift it higher, but Dean grips his wrist in alert.

“Okay hold on, what the fuck, hands- hands off my junk,” he slurs and he tries to guide his brother’s hand away, but Sam shakes loose with ease. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding to death and you worry about your chastity?” Sam sounds like he’s about to lose his temper in two seconds. 

“I’ve been humiliated enough today. No…No, uh, naked junk on my car seats,” he stumbles around the words. He hears Sam’s long, suffering sigh.

“If you have energy to make stupid jokes, you could’ve walked here yourself, you know.” 

“Shut up.” 

But Sam gives in and cuts a large hole in the fabric, trying to avoid the edges of the seeping wound. He hands Dean a flashlight and makes quick work of cleaning the wound, revealing a few ruptured stitches. Dean hates the stitching up-part, but he endures it quietly, fogging up the glass with warm puffs or air. The damp clothes seem to suck out all the warmth from his body, and his bare feet, save for the cast on his leg, are numb and icy. He feels fine tremors starting to move through his abused body. He probably looks as fantastic as he feels. Cas could fix this in an instant. Dean really misses him right now. 

Sam finishes doctoring him by carefully taping a thick bandage on the wound, and then he leans back, breathing out. 

“Dean?” There’s a lot of context wrapped in that single word, topmost _are you okay, do you think you can hold on,_ but Dean recognizes the lowkey, hidden helplessness underneath that, _I need you._ Dean blinks his eyes open. He’s not entirely sure when he closed them. His head feels mushy and sluggish. Resting time’s over. 

“G-get me my clothes, I want this stupid thing off me,” he mutters and yanks the hem of the garb pointedly. 

“We don’t have time for that, we need to get-“

“Sam, please,” Dean breathes out, exhausted. He just needs to feel more like himself again. Getting stuck uselessly in the backseat is defeat enough for him, he doesn’t want to suffer it in a goddamn gown. Sam stays quiet for couple of beats and then he’s out of the car, digging something in the trunk. He re-enters soon with a bundle of clothes balled up in his hands.

“You’re gonna need some help with this, you know.”

It’s slow and painful process getting dressed up, although Sam has succeeded in finding some loose-fitting sweatpants and a hoodie with a zipper in their bags. Dean manages to tug the pants on, once Sam has gotten them past the clumsy cast, and he has to allow Sam to help him with the hoodie. Sam works hurriedly, glancing out of the windows every now and then, and Dean’s reminded that yeah, there was a psychotic angel right in their heels few moments before. The exertion leaves him winded and there’s nothing more he wishes than passing out. Right now. But Sam won’t allow him a second’s rest, as he taps him on the shoulder. There are couple of white pills on his palm on offer, and Dean takes them without question, drinks stale water from the bottle Sam puts in his hand. 

“You’re good,” Sam says reassuringly, touches his clammy forehead lightly. Dean doesn’t have the energy to answer, but he pats his brother’s thigh as thanks. Sam gets out wordlessly and gets on the driver’s seat, shutting the door louder than necessary. 

“Okay. Okay. We need to figure out where we can hole up and what to do next,” Sam starts talking. Dean can feel the waves of anxiety roll off him and he gathers every ounce of willpower he still possesses to be of help to him.

“Check the real estate-sites, look for some-“

“-isolated houses, yeah, okay,” Sam finishes but Dean feels the panicked chokehold lessen around them. Good. All energy just drains out of him in one heavy sigh. His eyelids feel too heavy to resist and he closes them, just for a second.

“-an? Dean?” He fights to open his eyes groggily, when Sam’s insistent asking pierces through his muddy conscience. 

“There you are. You, um, passed out for a minute there.” The relief is palpable in Sam’s voice.

“What?” Dean rasps out, disoriented. He blinks to focus his vision, sees Sam craning his neck to get a quick look at him, then turning his head back forward. They’re moving. The steady rumble of the Impala feels less soothing underneath him when they speed on the uneven road, painfully reminding Dean of his wounds. He lifts his heavy head and spots silhouettes of bushes and trees outside the window.

“You gotta stay awake for a little while longer. I found us a potential place, we need to scout it.”

“W-was I out for long?” 

“Less than five minutes.” Sam sounds strained. “How’s the wound? Stitches holding up well?” Dean lifts his uncoordinated hands and manages to raise the edge of the hoodie carefully to inspect the wound. There’s a small patch of blood soaked through the bandages, but it doesn’t look like it’s continually seeping.

“Huh. Looks like you finally managed to learn how to do proper stitches,” he jokes weakly. His head feels like it’s made of lead, thoughts running slower than oily water, but if there’s a chance to rib his brother, he’ll take it. 

“Yeah, ha ha.” 

Dean tries to adjust his uncomfortable position, but every movement twists his body in a wrong way. The throb in his broken ankle has reduced to steady discomfort, but the dull pain sinks its claws in with vengeance the second he tries to move the leg a little. He only partially manages to hide the groan that escapes his throat. 

“You okay?” Sam asks immediately, reacting to his silent distress.

“Yeah, peachy.” Dean’s answer is clipped and weary. He’s getting tired of hearing that question. He slumps further down against the door, curling up on himself to stave the persistent cold away. His head is starting to feel a little bit clearer, and he’s able to think without the muddled cloud of exhaustion and concussion slowing him down.

“Thanks for saving my ass back there,” he continues after a small pause. 

“Anytime, you know that.” Sam gives him a small, sincere smile over his shoulder. The knowledge that Sam has his back no matter what, steadies Dean, but there’s something that nags him, something that still feels unfinished. And now that he’s opened the unspoken can of worms in the hospital, it’s really hard to shove that thought back down that says everything’s not the way it should be. Maybe it’s the painkillers and the head injury that make him more loose-lipped than usual, but he finds that he has no control over his mouth. 

“Hey…we’re good, right?” He asks hesitantly. 

“What do you mean?” Sam counters his question with a frown on his features. 

“I mean… does that business with the Mark still keep you awake at night?” Dean feels too tired to wonder if his question makes even sense to Sam. He hasn’t a clue whether Sam will reject the whole subject or deflect it. But it’s something he feels needs to be said. 

“Wait, where’s this coming from?” Dean sees Sam’s shoulders tense minutely as he shoots him an incredulous look. 

“I just… I mean, we talked about that in the hospital and I apologized, and you said that we’re brothers and that’s all great, but you didn’t actually say you’ve forgiven me. And yeah, I know, it’s a minor detail, but ever since I came back and was a real boy again, things have been kinda weird between us. As you kindly pointed out to me, that was probably mostly because I was a total asshole, but that’s why I’m asking you, are we good?” Dean has to stop to take a breath. He follows keenly, how Sam’s adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows nervously. Sam doesn’t answer right away, instead choosing to stare ahead, and the silence stretches on. When he finally opens his mouth, his tone is raw, like every wall he ever built around himself is coming down. 

“Honestly? I don’t know. There’s been a constant shitstorm happening ever since we got rid of the Mark, and you’ve been fighting with Cas and we’ve been fighting each other non-stop and there wasn’t…there wasn’t any point where we could catch a break and return to normal, you know? And I feel like… Back then, with the Mark, I was prepared to mourn for a brother that didn’t want my help, and I did mourn you. But you came back, yet I still felt like I had lost you, because you were just… _gone._ And I know it was the Mark that made you that way, but still, I sacrificed a lot to get you back, and finally, when we managed to lift the curse, I thought to myself that okay, things will probably go back to normal between us. I wasn’t holding on to the things we went through back then, I was fully prepared to give my life for you. It just the fact that you held on to it, I think, and it made you shut down. And I still feel like I’m trying to help you shoulder through that crap, but you keep pushing me away. It just feels like constantly trying to swim against the current, and honestly, it gets so tiring sometimes. So yeah, there you have it.” Sam stops, does a little half-shrug with his shoulders that makes Dean feel like they’re both just as clueless on how to fix it. There’s a cold, tight fist slowly squeezing around his insides, making it harder to take a full breath. 

“Wow, okay. I was kinda expecting our usual talks, like ‘yeah it’s all cool’ and ‘we’ve had worse than this’ and all that jazz, but seems like you’ve taken quite an issue with…all of this,” he tries to tiptoe around the subject, but Sam doesn’t take his bait to joke their way out of this. 

“I’m not trying to guilt-trip you, I’m just saying that you should stop looking at what you _did_ and look at what you’re _doing_.” An uncomfortable feeling spreads through Dean’s body, lodging heavily in his throat.

“Are you trying to break up with me?” Dean tries to dress up his quietly simmering fear as a bad joke, because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

“This is exactly what you do and what I’m talking about!” Sam unexpectedly hits the steering wheel and Dean flinches. “Stop hiding behind your jokes and your ‘no chick-flick-moments’, and be honest with me. I think I can handle it.” Sam keeps looking ahead, but his face crumples for a second, sorrowful. “I just want you to be my brother again.”

”I’ve never stopped being your brother,” Dean raises his voice, instantly defending himself. _You did stop, once,_ he almost says to Sam. But it’s not about hurting one another now. “And I’m not trying to be a comedian to- to hide anything, it’s just the way I deal, you _know_ that. I keep seeing you kneeling on that fuckin floor, bloody, and I think, I did that.” His voice betrays him, and he has to take a moment to gather his breath. Sam clears his throat quietly. They both are tumbling over the edge and he can’t help it. “And I did that to Cas. I did all of that to the people I’m supposed to protect, so how the hell I’m supposed to look myself in the mirror, huh? And it…it gets so much sometimes, Sam. I feel like I don’t deserve the chances and lifelines you’re giving me.” The last admission doesn’t come easy, it burns him on the way out, and leaves him incredibly bare and ashamed. He fixes his eyes on the passing scenery outside, so he doesn’t have to look at the probable rejection on his brother’s face. Dean feels so spent and weary, like he’s given his everything.

“Dean, look-“ Sam stops to find the proper words. “-I’m not about to leave you, okay? And neither is Cas. I forgive you for all of that shit, you hear me? I forgive you, so you don’t have to carry that with you anymore. It just…I don’t want us doing the same mistakes over and over again, so we have to start being more open with each other. Trust in us.” His plea is earnest. It takes a minute to let the words sink in; Sam’s right there with him, this isn’t one of those times when he’s been given an ultimatum. Dean lets himself relax minutely, first time realizing how tightly his muscles been locked up. A fine tremor starts running through his limbs. He folds his arms tighter around his body, trying not to disturb the wound. The injuries are starting to remind Dean of themselves painfully again, now that his body is starting to come down from the alerted stage. 

“Trust in us.” He repeats. “Yeah, okay.” Dean’s answer is quiet as a whisper. He still feels raw, but not as burdened as before, like Sam’s words got through to some thick wall he’s been shielding himself with. 

“Okay,” Sam confirms, nodding. There’s a moment of deep silence between them, which neither is willing to disturb. Just as it’s about to get uncomfortable, Dean smiles weakly.

“How come one of has to almost die before we talk about this stuff, huh?” Sam laughs, a sound that bursts out of him equal parts genuine relief and amusement. Dean sees him wipe his eyes discreetly, trying to disguise it as casual movement of brushing his hair back with his fingers. 

“I-I don’t know, man. Maybe someday we’ll be smart enough work through our shit differently. But we’ll get through this, right?” Dean can’t help the soft smile that warms him from the inside. Maybe it’s mushy and touchy-feely, but after the wringer they’ve been through in the past few days alone; it’s much needed. 

“Yeah, we will, like always.” He says with absolute surety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sneaky bastard and I've hidden couple of Monty Python-references in this fic. Also I have no idea about the geography nor the public healthcare system in USA, so Google is my only friend with this. As always, feedback is welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare thyselves for bamf!Cas. And some sappy things.

The miles stretch before Castiel. He’s been driving non-stop for three hours, mercilessly exhausting his gas tank and blatantly ignoring all the speed limits. If there’s ever been a moment, when he’s wished he could have his wings back, this is it, because traveling by car feels so slow and cumbersome, especially now. He’s tried calling Sam for several hours, but there’s been no answer, not a message, not a beep. The last time he heard of him, Sam explained that Dean had been attacked and was in a hospital, but not in critical condition, he had reassured him, but had sounded anxious all the same. But Castiel had felt the same ripple in the frequency he’s always attuned at, as before the other murders, the same wrongness of it, and it had felt like a bomb going off underwater. Ever since, Castiel has been sick with worry. Anything could’ve happened to them. He sees the Winchesters helpless, wounded, dying, and truth be told, Castiel didn’t even know he possessed such an imagination to conjure up those images. 

He keeps replaying his last encounters with Dean, over and over again. Had he taken advantage of Dean’s distressed state? Had he been overly intrusive, breaking apart the last chance they had? Should he have stayed away, like he planned to, if not for his weak moment? These questions torment Castiel, and they rattle around in his skull, and it’s all so frustrating and…human. Choosing a course of action based on uncertain outcomes, decisions borne out of ‘I would like to’. They exhaust him. He knows what he wants, to stay beside Dean, but he’s not sure he can salvage anything out of the shipwreck they’ve suffered. He’s not sure if Dean wants to have anything to do with him anymore, so the question of continuing this…whatever, unnamed thing they’ve been slowly building up for years, might be off the table. 

They’ve never really discussed it, but Castiel imagines what they have- _had_ , entails most of the features common with relationships, except there weren’t any love you’s and hand holding while walking in the beach. It had always been kinda rough, _us against the world_ , impossible situations they’d tried to get the top of while having each other’s backs. There had been absolute trust, mixed with desire, right from the beginning, the knowledge that they could always rely on one another. Of course, there were the bad parts, the betrayals and the angry fights, but that all made them something that they uniquely _are._ And when Dean kissed him the first time, it had felt like something coming to be that had been long brewing underneath, and he welcomed it with a flutter in his heart that he had never experienced. They both accepted the new realities surprisingly easy, slowly diving deeper into this thing through trial and error, because Castiel has to face it – they both just as clueless with how to handle emotions this deep. 

And he misses both the hard and the easy parts. Dean’s angry outbursts every time he got frustrated with Castiel or simply because he got insecure. Learning the subtle cues that comes from knowing the other person intimately. There’s only a fraction Castiel has managed to understand, he feels, like how Dean’s whole body seems to hum with restless energy, when he’s in a good mood, or how the lines around his mouth tighten, when he’s barely to refrain himself from snapping at somebody. How his pupils dilate and breathing deepens, when he wants Castiel. Figuring out sex. Castiel only started to understand what’s the fuss about, when he made Dean come the first time, and he thought, _I was able to do this to him_. 

Still, mostly what he misses, are the small things and details. Dean rarely wants to be the little spoon, and he grumbles about the whole thing almost every time. But he’s content like that too, Castiel knows, because the stuff that he doesn’t say, is what he has to look out for. His warmth and weight always feel so reassuring, Castiel can’t help but to gravitate closer. In the mornings, it takes usually an hour of grouchy silence and two cups of coffee to wake Dean up, any rushing or trivial small talk not approved. Dean values the slow mornings, as he was never able to have them while growing up, he explained once. Sometimes they steal small smiles and touches while on a job, and Sam pretends not to notice. Movie nights and drives in the Impala. Dean’s lopsided smile, when he’s pleased how he unravels Castiel when they kiss. Freckles and green eyes that are a reflection of a world of its own. 

Castiel had almost been able to accept his fate too, to live without Dean. But when he saw him, when he touched him, he felt that same magnetic pull he’d always been drawn towards. And he’d still do anything for Dean. 

_So, fix it._

But what if he never gets the chance now? 

And he pushes his foot down harder on the gas pedal, as if that would work, when he’s already going as fast as he can. 

A shrill ringtone wakes Castiel up from his anxious thoughts. He immediately jolts, grabs the phone and presses the green answer-button before even checking out the caller.

“Hello?” He answers breathlessly.

“ _Cas, um, hi_.” Sam. A wave of relief washes over Castiel, unseen knots loosening a little inside of him. 

“Sam. Are you okay? You didn’t answer my calls.” Sam clears his throat, the sound metallic over the phone. 

“ _Yeah, we ran into some trouble in the hospital, sorry I couldn’t call sooner. These assholes seem to have targeted Dean, I don’t know why, but an angel trashed him around some, so we had to bail._ _He was losing a lot of blood, so it got sorta intense for a while, but he’s stable now. We found a place where we’re hiding, until we can regroup. What’s up on your end, did you find anything?”_

Everything around him fades into the distance, and it takes a moment to register that Sam asked him a question. He’s mostly just stuck on the fact that Dean’s okay, relatively, and they aren’t in immediate danger. Helpless rage begins to simmer in his gut. Dean got hurt again and he wasn’t there to help them. 

“ _Cas?”_

“Uh, yeah, I’m here. How bad is Dean? Can I talk to him?” Castiel finds his voice again.

“ _Could be worse, but could be better too, to be honest. He’s completely wiped out. I doped him full of meds and now he’s crashing on the couch. We just need to hold on, until you come and can heal him.”_ Sam sounds exhausted. 

“Give me four hours, I’ll be there. Just text me the address.”

“ _Hold on, what about the case? We need some leads, and fast. I have no idea where these angels are coming from and how do they choose their victims.”_

“Grand Junction was a bust,” Castiel shrugs, even though Sam can’t see it. “The trail had gone cold, I saw only the bodies and some residual grace left in one of them. This whole thing doesn’t add up somehow.” What he doesn’t mention to Sam is the fact that he turned back without even investigating the case further, sickening worry and self-loathing eating his insides, because he was in the _wrong place_. 

“ _What do you mean?”_

“I’m not sure yet. But it’s got something to do with the discord in angel radio. It’s like there’s a…decayed threads of grace. I’ve never felt anything like that.” 

“ _Great, so we still have no idea who we’re dealing with,”_ Sam mumbles into the phone. There’s a loud sigh. “ _Well, I’d better get back on it, see if I can dig up anything. I’ve warded the place pretty tight, so call me if there’s a problem when you arrive. I’ll text the details.”_

“Thank you, Sam.” Cas almost ends the call, but he adds hastily, “take care of Dean, please?” 

“ _You know I do. See you.”_

* * *

Dean’s been hearing low voices for few minutes now in the next room, and he struggles to break the surface of sleep, eyelids heavy like lead. He feels oddly weightless, mouth cottony, and uncomfortably hot and feverish. He comes back to himself slowly, remembering the angel in the hospital, the pain-laden car ride and flashes of how Sam tried to lift him out of the car and carry him, but Dean’s knees kept buckling underneath him. He must’ve blacked out then. Dean’s too tired to even move a muscle, but the blaring pain in his body has dulled somewhat from before, and he can breathe deeper, without the wound constantly twinging in his side. 

Dean concentrates on opening his eyes, squinting against the harsh, electric light, wincing as his head starts pounding harder. He’s lying on something soft. A sofa, he concludes after he’s able to make out the floral patterns on the backrest. A heavy blanket is draped over him. There’s an empty fireplace in the corner, and the walls are bare. Dean doesn’t recognize the place. Sam must’ve found a hiding spot for them. 

There are footsteps entering the room behind him. 

“He’s right here,” Sam is saying quietly. Two figures enter Dean’s field of vision and he tries his damnest to focus his blurry eyes, which widen in surprise at the sight before him, lips parting open when he tries to get his mouth working.

“Cas,” Dean breathes out, taking in the rumpled figure of the angel, who has stopped dead on his tracks the second he’s seen Dean. Sam is standing beside him, looking haggard and tired. Both stare at Dean, Cas with a look of pure shock and devastation on his face. 

“How are you feeling?” Sam kneels beside Dean, placing a cool hand on his damp, hot forehead, but he doesn’t even have the mind to shrug his brother off. Dean can’t break his eyes away from Cas, who looks torn between coming closer and staying away, and he lingers there, fingers clenching and unclenching compulsively. 

It’s Cas. He’s here and Dean’s heart is swelling from rush of emotions he doesn’t know how to reign in. He almost thought he’d never see him again. He inhales shakily, trying to find his center again.

“Hey, Cas,” he whispers, weakly gesturing with a nod for him to step closer, and some of the tension bleeds away from the angel’s posture. Sam glances between them with a scrutinizing expression, wordlessly getting up, making room for Cas, who takes up the space hesitantly. Dean sees his brother retreating further back in the room in his peripheral vision, allowing them some space. 

“Hey, Dean,” Cas says softly, worry tightening the lines around his eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, but he looks so unsure of himself, like he wants to touch Dean but doesn’t know how. Dean’s just so damn relieved to see him, and he offers a tired grin in response.

“You took your time.” His voice is nothing but a dry rasp, and he clears his throat. Cas' eyes flicker on the bruises on Dean’s face, and his hand twitches nervously. His eyes are sorrowful, the bright blue of them veiled, barely showing through. 

“Dean, I- I came as fast as I could. I’m sorry.” 

Dean manages to free his other hand from under covers, brushes his fingertips over Castiel’s knuckles lightly, and leaves his hand there. He needs to touch him, needs to feel the warm skin beneath his fingers. Cas follows the movement, still as a statue, then he looks up in puzzlement. Dean can’t hold his gaze for long, instead following the path his thumb trails on Cas' hand. Cas lets him, sensing that he’s working his way to saying something difficult.

“Cas, I…I’m sorry. For how I’ve been acting. I’ve been a real asshole. I drove you away, and all of this, is my fault.” Dean’s chest gets tighter with every word, it gets harder to breathe. How can he even begin to apologize this mess he’s created? He inhales shakily, risking a glance at Cas. And stops there, because Cas' eyes are a well of emotion, undimmed, and _fuck,_ he could keep looking at him forever. There’s still sorrow and regret, but also immense warmth, that lights up his whole face tentatively in a way that only Dean recognizes. 

“You mean that?” Cas asks in a very small voice, like he’s afraid of the answer, but then he rushes to continue, voice filling with grief. “Because I understand why you needed me to go. And I’m sorry too, for my part.”

“What? I told you to go, because I was a fuckin coward. Cas, you didn’t do anything.” Dean tries to get up on his elbows, because he feels so powerless lying there, but all air escapes him when a flare of sharp pain forces him back down. 

“Fuck,” he grits between clenched teeth, back arched tensely, because it hurts like hell trying to relax his body. He suddenly notices he’s gripping Cas' hand tightly, nails digging into the skin, and he manages to pry his fingers loose. Cas is squeezing his shoulder with his other hand, solid and steady, and Sam is hovering over his shoulder anxiously. Probably leapt across the room with one giant step, the overgrown mother hen he is. Little by little, Dean’s able to relax his battered muscles, shakily letting out the air from his lungs. Cold sweat clings to his skin.

“Dean. I need to heal you. Will you allow me to do that?” Cas asks very seriously. _What?_ Dean looks at him in dismay, because why in the hell Cas needs to ask permission for that? Both Sam and Cas stare back with solemn faces. Right. Last time Dean refused. Consent issues and all that. Sam misreads his hesitation, butting into the conversation. 

“You have to let him heal you, we need all three of us for this fight. I had to take down the protective sigils to let Cas in, so the angels might be here any minute. We need you for this, please.”

“Yeah, alright,” Dean mutters. “But won’t it weaken you? Shouldn’t you save your strength if they’re coming?” Cas let’s his face soften, when he looks at Dean.

“Don’t worry about me. I can take them.” 

“Go for it, then.” He says it nonchalantly, but a wave of relief washes over Dean. Finally he can stop feeling like dead weight, literally and figuratively. Finally, he can be of use. 

Cas brings up his other hand, the other one still tethered in Dean’s tight grip, places his long fingers on his cheek, almost shyly. At once, Dean feels the familiar warm tingle spreading through his limbs, and all of his aches just dissolve; he breathes easier, without the constant headache. He sighs, melting back into the cushions. Dean had almost forgotten what it felt like to be without pain. Cas hasn’t moved his hand, and Dean glances at him, seeing his face tightly burrowed in concentration. 

“Wait, this is-“ Cas starts speaking and is abruptly cut off, when a bolt of lightning works through Dean’s body and his whole body spasms involuntary. He lets out a hoarse, strangled cry, teeth clenched tightly, and Cas jolts backwards. Just as quickly the debilitating pain disappears, leaving his muscles tightened like chords. Dean feels like he just got tasered and he blinks rapidly to bring himself back to the now, fighting to fill his lungs with air again. His heart pounds in his ears. 

“Dean! What the hell just happened?” Sam is right there in his face, frantic, cupping his head in his hands. Dean tries to wave him off, tell him that he’s okay, but his fingers are still twitching, and he feels like a huge rock was dropped on him. He manages a nod, and Sam eases up. _What the fuck was that._ He catches a glimpse of Cas, picking himself up clumsily from the floor, looking dazed. Sam kneels next to him, helping him stand.

“I’m okay, Sam, I’m okay,” Cas is saying, voice roughened, but regardless lets Sam help him. He looks glum and shaken up.

“Cas?” Dean gets his mouth moving finally. Cas looks at him in obvious worry, Sam mirroring his look unknowingly. He waves them off, completely done being coddled by them, done with how they look at him like he’ll shatter on impact. He feels more like himself with every passing moment, and he can still take a hit. Dean’s muscles feel sore and there’s an uncomfortable tingle in his fingertips, but otherwise he feels surprisingly functional. He throws off the blanket and pushes himself up slowly, reveling in the fact that he can do that without passing out from pain. Once he’s seated, feet firmly planted on the floor, he remembers the cast in his leg. Dean wiggles his toes experimentally. His leg feels fine. He feels fine. Tired, but fine. 

“So, what the fuck was that?” He asks, running his hand through his hair, noting with slight disgust how it’s a damp mess. The grimness returns to Cas with the question, makes shadows on his face again.

“I think I know, who we’re dealing with.” Both the brothers look a little sharper at that revelation, opening their mouths to speak at the same time, with questions like _who_ and _what_ and _how do you know that,_ but Cas makes a tired gesture with his hands, shutting them both up. 

“It’s an angel. Raguel. He had planted a tracking spell inside of you, and I disarmed it by accident. But I felt his presence, before he cast me out.”

 _Tracking spell?_ Dean searches his memories, suddenly remembering how the large man had placed his hand on his chest before he exploded. No wonder he had been easy to find in the hospital. And now they know his current location, so they’re basically just sitting ducks here.

“Fucking great…” He mutters aloud, tiredly digging the palms of his hands into his eyes.

“So, wait, it’s just one angel? How is he able to jump from place to place so fast? He doesn’t have his wings, right?” Sam interjects. Dean looks up in surprise. The thought hadn’t entered his mind at all. Cas seems troubled and unsure about his answer, seeking correct words and stumbling around them.

“I think he’s…um, cutting out parts of himself, and of his grace. I’ve never heard of anything like it, but that’s what I felt, and it explains the noise- I mean the dissonant feeling I’ve been having before every attack. It’s…extremely painful, and a very slow way to die, because that way one keeps shattering their essence, piece by piece.” 

“So, he’s basically making…horcruxes?” Sam looks like he’s having trouble swallowing Cas' words, and the angel furrows his brow at the strange reference. Dean accepts the theory easier, thoughts already focusing on how they can kill this fucker. 

“Shut it, nerd. The real question here is _why_?” Dean cuts him off, and Sam shoots him an irritated look. 

“I’ve never met Raguel, but I know of him. He was one of the higher-ranking angels in Heaven, and responsible for judging errant and undisciplined angels if they had transgressed God’s laws, casting them out of Heaven if the crime had been grave enough. He was also a ruthless soldier, and a traditionalist, siding with Michael. He never held much interest in humans, nor Earth for that matter, regarding all of this-“ Cas gestures with his hands like he could encompass every living thing with one single motion, -“as a glorified playground for brainless apes.” Dean raises his eyebrows in disbelief.

“A buffed-up asshole with delusions of grandeur. Great. How do we kill it?”

“You have to understand, his original purpose was to keep law and order, to punish those who are wicked. He was well respected, feared even. And now he’s broken and mutilated, cast down into this…place he has no knowledge and understanding of. I think he’s just trying to give himself a purpose again, responding to imperfect, faulty souls by trying to judge them, albeit he’s lost his reason, and these are just horrible crimes.” 

“Cas. We can’t save him,” Dean says softly. Cas avoids his eyes, but Dean knows what he’s going through; the internal struggle within him, and the shame that has weighted the angel’s step ever since the Fall. He wishes he could take it upon himself to carry that burden.

“I know that, Dean. But he’s still one of my brothers.” 

“And we’re sorry it has come to this. But Dean’s right. He’s killed a lot of people already and will continue to do so.” Sam looks understanding, but decisive. Jesus, his brother has been through a wringer in the past day, but he doesn’t falter, already planning their next move. It makes Dean proud, seeing him take the lead like this. 

“Yes, I’m aware of that, and I’ll perform my part in this, just as you will,” Cas answers dejectedly. He sighs heavily, before continuing on. “He can be killed, like any other angel, theoretically. The only problem is the original host; as long as he exists, he can carve up more pieces of himself. And because the newborn parts of him are extremely unpredictable, it wears down the hosts more quickly, which explains the rapidly exploding bodies. We need to kill them, before they can do that, otherwise they’ll just find new hosts. Mutilating himself has already made Raguel weaker, killing few of the newborn hosts should incapacitate him, I hope.” 

“And how do we find the original host?” Sam crosses his arms in deep concentration; Dean can almost see the wheels turning in his head. He listens in silence.

“I should be able to make a connection with him through a sigil, once a newborn host is near enough. It takes a lot my strength to do that, so you need to do most of the fighting. If he’s been tracking Dean, I think we can safely conclude that he’s coming after him, sooner or later. I suggest we simply wait for him to come to us.” Dean nods in approval. Simple and effective. He likes it. Sam doesn’t voice any protests either. They contemplate the plan quietly for a moment. Then Sam huffs out a breath, clearly trying to voice something that’s been bothering him.

“So, um, why did the angel pick Dean? Or any of the victims? It just seems so random.”

Cas looks at him, then Dean, with reluctance written across his face.

“I think Raguel just seeks out souls that emit certain types of negative feelings, like regret, shame, anger, or sadness,” he says carefully. Dean shakes his head in frustration at that.

“You can cut the bullshit, you two. I’m like a gourmet meal of self-loathing and bad decisions, we all know exactly why he’s after me.” 

“Dean-“ Sam starts, but Dean glares at him, and his mouth snaps closed.

“I’m not looking for pep-talks right now. What we need, is our weapons and everything that might slow him down.” He knows he’s spoken too harshly the second the words leave his mouth, in the way Sam’s mouth tightens and his posture stiffens, like Dean would’ve hurled something heavy at him. Sam stands up straighter and nods, once.

“Okay then. Guess I’m getting our weapons,” he says too evenly, his tone betraying his irritation, and takes off. Fuck. Dean shuts his eyes, gathers his patience. He can’t say anything right, it seems.

“Sam.” His brother stops, turns around slowly, waiting for Dean to carry on. “I’m sorry. And thanks…for, you know, saving my ass back there, and, um, sticking by me.” It’s not elegant, and nothing but a skeletal version of an apology owed, _because how can it ever be enough,_ but by some miracle it’s enough for Sam. Sam regards him silently, corner of his mouth turning upward into a smile. 

“You got it, Dean.” He leaves, leaving Dean and Cas alone. Cas immediately tenses, eyes darting to the side, mapping out the room in a half-assed attempt to buy himself some time to bail.

“I should probably-“

“Cas. Please stay,” Dean pleads, and there’s that look of confusion again, like Dean’s speaking in a foreign language. It doesn’t suit Cas at all, seeing the exterior of solemnity and confidence chipped away like blemishes on fine marble, and Dean reminds himself that he did that. Something uncomfortable squeezes his chest. He has to fix this. He’s got Cas here; he can fix this. 

“You-you actually were serious about what you said earlier?” Cas asks disbelievingly, still looking like he’s expecting a trap to spring down on him any minute. Dean keeps holding Cas' gaze tightly, even though his own nerves want to betray him.

“Look. This is like the worst possible timing and place for this, but I owe you an apology. Sam made me realize what a major asshole I’ve been. What happened with the Mark, what I did to you and Sam, it should’ve never happened. But it did, and I felt so incredibly shitty about myself, and I…retreated behind my walls, lashed out every time you wanted to help, because I thought I was not good enough anymore. I-I thought that I didn’t deserve you anymore, and it was easier to push you away than let you in, because I didn’t want anyone else…be tainted the way I am.” He has to stop, to inhale deeply, feeling breathless and jittery. It was hard talking about this with Sam, it gets so much harder now, because he’s got so much to lose. He squeezes his sweaty palms, thumb moving in slow circles along his own fingers in an unconscious habit of calming himself down. Cas stays quiet, eyes widened, dark with sadness. 

“But, you know the funny thing about playing the victim? I didn’t have to think whether I was in the wrong too. It’s just…it gets harder to fix things when you convince yourself to think that you have no power over these things. But I was so ridden with guilt that I couldn’t see clearly. I still feel guilty, and I will probably always give myself a hard time with what I did, but now I just want to say that Cas, you didn’t do anything wrong. I cornered you, and you had no other choice any longer. So…I hope that you can forgive me.”

”Dean, I thought- I was convinced that you wanted me gone because I had screwed up so badly. I worked behind your back with Sam to remove the Mark, I betrayed your trust, everything I’ve ever done to help you has gone sideways- I felt like it was just time for me to go and keep my distance, and not screw up your life anymore.” Words tumble out of the angel’s mouth in a panicked frenzy, a bleeding wound that cannot stop oozing. 

“Cas,” Dean whispers brokenly, and Cas freezes there, myriad of emotions in his pained expression, openly displayed. He’s hurting, same as Dean. 

“Cas, I wouldn’t even be alive if it wasn’t for you. We’ve all screwed up, more times than I can count. And we’ve done some good, too. And- and I wouldn’t wish to see you anywhere but here, with me and Sam, okay?” 

No, he has to do better than that. 

“I want you here, with me. And I wish…I wish that you’d want that too.”

“Dean, yes, of- of course I want that,” Cas responds immediately, and he sort of steps forward hesitantly, so Dean gets up in a wordless affirmation that _yes,_ he needs Cas there like right now. That breaks whatever spell Cas was under, and he takes rushed steps forward and Dean tries to meet him halfway, but he’s forgotten the stupid cast and ends up doing an awkward hobble instead, almost losing his balance. Cas catches him like it’s a fucking romantic comedy, steadying him with a sturdy grip on his biceps. Dean’s grinning like an idiot, taking a second to appreciate that Cas needs their closeness just as urgently as he does. With a glance and a careless wave of Cas' finger, the cast snaps in half, and then Dean can’t wait any longer, and crushes him against his chest without any warning, arms wrapped around him tightly, and Cas' response is to pull him even closer, fingers curling into the nape of his neck. Fuck, how he’s missed this. How fucking stupid he’s been.

“We’re just couple of idiots, you know that, right? What a fucking disaster.”

A quiet laugh escapes his mouth, warm puffs of air, where he speaks against Cas' hair, he can’t help it; this bubbling joy rising up, up, exhilaration where there was sadness moments ago. Dean traces the ridges of Cas' scapula where it’s palpable underneath his jacket, just relieved to feel him solid and steady against him, hand ghosting up into the fine hairs of his neck. He can feel the smile on the angel’s face, when he mildly answers Dean. 

“We seem to have…fucked this up royally, yes.” Dean actually laughs at that; it always feels weird and out of place when Cas swears like that. He breaks away from the embrace, but keeps Cas close, who holds on to Dean’s hoodie, and they lean their foreheads together without saying another word, like the touch starved creatures that they are. They might still have ways to go and this newfound peace is fragile at most, but for a while Dean allows himself to feel that this is okay. He might be fucked up, the world might be fucked up, but he’s got Cas again, and for a while Dean can quieten his insecurities and believe that he’s worth this; he gets to have this. 

They’re gonna kill this motherfucker and then Dean gets to take Cas home again and kiss him senseless and more.

* * *

Waiting seems like the hardest part for all of them. Castiel sits on a worn-down chair, his attention tuned into the energies around the place. He’s the only safety measure they have against Raguel, and he’ll know exactly the second when someone will set foot within perimeter he’s made. They’re pretty much going to this fight blindly, as every sigil and item they have in their possession will just hinder Castiel as much it’ll hinder Raguel, also ruling out traps.

Sam and Dean prowl the house nervously, checking and double checking their weapons several times. They’ll have to rely on their angel blades, but it hasn’t stopped Dean from loading their guns with every special bullet they were able to find in the trunk of the Impala. Some refurnishing was necessary too – they piled the heavy pieces of furniture into hasty barricades, so that the brothers have some shelter once Raguel comes busting in. They’re both exhausted; Castiel can tell, but too wired to actually rest. Dean touches his shoulder occasionally when he passes by - a wordless confirmation that he’s okay, that they’re okay. Castiel takes comfort in the small gestures; every touch feels like it’s healing the rift that still exists somewhere between them. 

He’s baffled and overjoyed that Dean was the one who had had a change of heart and was willing to let Castiel back into his life. There’s still a small part that wonders if this is okay. If they’re able to go back to the way things were before. It’s been a long time since they had any type of normalcy in their relationship, and he wonders, if they are even able to find that precarious balance again. These doubts come and go, but he finds solace in observing the fidgety hunter, taking stock of how his fingers drum nervously against his thigh, playing with the angel blade absentmindedly. Dean’s eyes find his, and they crinkle up in a little smile. And Castiel realizes that it really doesn’t matter, because he would still do everything and anything for him, either way. 

“Everything good?” 

“Everything good,” Castiel echoes. He sees Sam casting a glance in their direction, before going back to his phone. Dean catches the look too, rolling his eyes half-heartedly, before directing his focus to his brother.

“Sammy. I bet you’ve followed the local news, anything on the hospital?” Dean’s tone is neutral, but he’s got the look of a man who’s dreading to hear the answer. Sam looks identical in his measured carefulness when he answers, like he was afraid to hear the question.

“Yeah, in fact. It’s, um, quite the chaos.”

“Okay, I need the facts, not sugarcoating. How bad was it?”

“Pretty bad. Apparently Raguel fried the whole hospital, along with the back-up regenerator. He blacked out complete wards, I mean nurses, doctors, patients, everyone. He wanted to take his sweet time with you, I bet. When the machines failed, they lost twelve patients. They got everything up and running now and are calling it a gas leak. Nothing on the body though. Looks like our secret is safe once more.” Sam doesn’t look particularly happy when he says that. Dean nods quietly, grim expression settling on his face. He’ll find a way to feel guilty for those lost souls, Castiel knows this. Hearing about how far his own former brother is willing to go for his crooked ideals, sets a twisted, cold feeling in his gut; the knowledge that he’s responsible for it too. They’ll both bear the weight of these murders. 

”So that’s why the place was silent as a grave when I tried to escape,” Dean mutters partially to himself, after a while. Sam mouths a silent _yeah._ That’s when Castiel feels it. It feels like someone would press heavily against a thick film of plastic, slowly stretching it outward. The pressure grows in his head, and Sam’s and Dean’s voices become more distant, just background noise on which he can’t focus. He fights the disorienting feeling, taking a split second to wonder how did Raguel slip past his notice so easily.

“Sam. Dean. Get to cover. Now.” Castiel speaks urgently, getting up, readying himself. The brothers don’t argue with him, dashing behind the makeshift barricades, guns trained to the doorway. 

For a few seconds there’s nothing but oppressive silence. Castiel grips his blade tighter, eyes trained to the door, and he waits, unmoving. His nerves almost betray him, and he wants to glance back and find reassurance in Dean’s presence. But then there’s a massive shockwave blastíng through the door, sharp splinters raining down on them, and Cas flinches, shielding himself from the explosion. In its’ wake, three figures enter the room. One’s a middle-aged woman who looks like she got lost during a shopping trip, carrying a pair of large scissors, the second a young, dark-haired man carrying a crowbar, slow rivulets of blood running freely from his nose, and the third one is an older man, who enters last, the silver glint of an angel blade catching Castiel’s eye. 

Castiel straightens himself, allowing his form to grow taller, intimidating. The nervousness passes, and his only thought is to protect Sam and Dean. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t even let them fight these abominations, but he also knows Dean would rather knock him out cold than be left out of this. 

The newborn regard Castiel silently, studying him. He feels the power emanating from them. It feels unstable and ragged, frayed edges cutting through the air. 

“Raguel,” he starts, almost pleading. All three fix their gazes on Castiel, faces impassive. The young man’s nose keeps bleeding steadily. He doesn’t have a lot of time. “You don’t have to do this.” He hears movement behind him as Sam and Dean rise up and take their defensive positions. Immediately, all three turn to look at Dean, and the sharp tendrils of shredded grace snap and crackle in the confined space. The old man, carrying the angel blade, opens his mouth to speak. 

“I will take only this one, as a favor to you, Castiel. It is far more what you deserve.” 

“I will not let you!” Castiel growls, facing the vessel, readying himself for an attack. That’s the cue for the Winchesters, and things start happening simultaneously. He hears Dean barking an insult to the other two newborns, almost feels it in his own skin when Dean slices up his palm and starts drawing the angel banishing sigil somewhere behind him. The newborn take the bait and rush forward, leaving Castiel with the old man. 

Castiel snarls and charges forward, his blade poised ready, but the old man merely raises his hand, throwing Castiel back hard. He hits the wall, more surprised than hurt, and gets up at once, only to find heavy resistance every time he tries to take a step forward. He tries to strain against the pressure, muscles and ligaments almost snapping when his body can’t fight the invisible force. _Come on, come on,_ he has to get closer. Raguel’s using his grace to create this forcefield, Castiel belatedly realizes. There are sounds of fighting somewhere behind him, grunts and crashes, but he can’t even turn his head to look. 

Suddenly there’s a high-pitched scream and a bright light, and the pressure pops in Castiel’s ears. The resistance disappears so fast that his knees buckle and he almost stumbles to the ground. A very quick look confirms that Sam has his blade buried deep inside the other newborn’s skull - the young man - and the remaining two scream in pain and helpless rage. He catches a glimpse of Dean throwing the woman off his back, before Cas turns his focus back on his own opponent, who’s holding his ears, blood slowly running down between his fingers. The angel can’t resist him this time, and Castiel closes the distance, grabbing the old man’s head tightly, the other hand flying to his own chest, activating the sigil he carved there earlier. 

Their minds connect, like a rope tightening with a snap, and Castiel starts searching the newborn’s mind, wading through the fragmented feelings of rage and memories, pushing his barriers down more quickly than Raguel can rebuild them. He more feels than sees the other newborn trying to fight her way to them, before it’s too late, but Sam and Dean manage to hold her back. There’s something tugging him, a strand of grace, worn down like a frayed tendon, few stray strands separating from it, but he keeps following it further. 

There’s a loud crash on his left, and his mind snaps involuntarily back when he hears familiar, suppressed groan of pain. Dean is in trouble. The hunter lies in a heap in a pile of splintered rubble what used to be furniture, trying to sluggishly gather his limbs underneath him. Sam has been thrown into the wall, and he holds his side tightly. This isn’t good, Castiel thinks, and then he’s already flying backwards, hurled into the wall with enough strength that he feels the wood giving in underneath him. The crash steals the breath from his lungs, and the heavy pressure closes on him again, but only this time there are two of them, slowly advancing on him without even a sound. They’re outnumbered.

Frustration is making Castiel desperate, and he pushes and pushes against the onslaught of grace, but he can’t move an inch. Grace is burning up in him, and feels it spreading around him, his featherless wings unfold and the air around them sizzles with raw energy. The resistance slowly gives out, and everything is slowly starting to glow now, the pure power almost ripping his body apart. Castiel thrums with it, the feeling is almost...incredible. The newborn try to hold on, but Castiel wades through the thick energy, places his fingers on the woman’s forehead, burning him out from the inside. Her body hits the floor, the sound of it dulled under a deafening howl of his ravaged grace, and he yanks the last remaining newborn closer, tearing through the remains of his mind with the force of a galewind, searching for the angel’s presence. It tries to rip itself loose, evading him, but Castiel zeroes in, mind clear and bright. He finds what he’s looking for, hurls the last of his power at Raguel, before he breaks the connection. There’s a bright flash, and then it gets very dark. 

It might’ve been few minutes of or few hours, when Castiel comes back to himself. He’s lying on the floor, face down. Everything hurts. He tries to move his arms, but they won’t follow his orders, instead just trembling uncontrollably, terribly weak. He feels like he just shredded his own essence into mangled bits.

“What…” His voice sounds tinny, and there’s a bitter taste of copper in his mouth. 

“Cas! Oh fuck, Cas, you’re okay, jesus…” Cas turns his head slightly to see Sam helping Dean up, and they both make their way stiffly to Castiel. Dean more collapses than kneels in front of him, Sam following suite, albeit slower, and they help him to sit up. They all just sit awhile close to each other, slumped and breathing heavily, trying to gather themselves. Dean keeps a steady grip on his upper arm, watching him closely. It would be tempting to curl into his arms and just fall asleep there. It feels nice, being able to lean into Dean again. Everything is woozy, but the world starts settling in after a minute, and Castiel frowns, noticing the bruises and cuts on their skin. Dean has a black eye and a bleeding wound on his temple, and a impressive bruise is starting to swell on Sam’s jaw. Their ears have bled profusely. He did that, he knows instinctively. 

“Are you okay? I will heal you in a bit, once.. I, uh, rest awhile,” he says shakily. Dean raises his eyebrows, cups his cheek and swipes his fingers under Castiel’s nose, smearing them in blood. Huh, he wasn’t even aware that his nose was bleeding.

“Not a chance, hotshot. Me and Sammy will live.”

“Were you able to track him down, Cas?” Sam asks nursing his side, before Castiel can argue otherwise. Castiel searches his mind, finds the faint presence of something elusive inside of him. He follows the pull, anchoring himself more securely into it, tethering it down. 

“Yeah, I got him.” Both of the brothers sigh in relief. Sam struggles to his feet after a while, taking in the carnage around them. The place looks like a hand grenade went off inside the room, tearing everything into pieces. The three scattered bodies lay in haphazard positions, their eyes burned out. 

“Looks like we got them all.” There isn’t any emotion in Sam’s statement, he just looks weary and done. Castiel can understand that, he’s barely got enough strength to hold himself up and keep the connection to Raguel at the same time. Dean looks like he isn’t faring any better, the shallow, measured breaths revealing that he took quite more hits than he’s letting on. Still, he flashes him a thin smile, leaning closer that their foreheads almost touch, and Castiel leans in, closes the distance. 

“For once I’m so fucking glad I have a boyfriend with pretty awesome powers,” Dean says in a low voice and Castiel blinks in surprise. 

“Dean, I-, this is the first time you’ve called me your boyfriend,” he blurts out, and Dean leans back, a lopsided grin lightening up his bruised face.

“You wanna go steady, handsome?” 

Before he can even react, Sam scoffs in amusement and offers them a hand.

“Come on, you can flirt later, we still have some actual work to do.”

* * *

It takes couple of hours for them to reach their destination. Dean’s behind the wheel, and Sam has given his usual spot to Castiel, who leans heavily against the door, fading in and out of focus, waking up once in a while to give instructions on where to go. He almost burned himself out in that fight, and the gnawing fear still eats at Dean, the thought of losing Cas. Again, it was little too close for comfort, for all of them. His own ribs ache, and the ringing in his ears hasn’t ceased, building up a dull headache behind his eyes. Cas' power-up almost shattered their eardrums. He wants nothing more than to sleep for a thousand years, but they have to take care of this now, before Raguel has a chance to strike back again. 

Sam’s fast asleep in the backseat, and Dean checks that he’s okay at steady intervals, watching him through the rearview mirror. The kid’s exhausted, and the least Dean can do for Sam is to let him rest. 

Sometime during the trip, Castiel placed his hand in his, twining their fingers together, and Dean hasn’t let go since. It feels comforting, the warmth, a reminder that they are here and they are mostly okay. 

Finally they find the house they’ve been looking for. Dean parks the car, kills the ignition, checking out the place. It’s a remote, one-storied house, no neighbours in sight. The windows are bare, devoid of any light or life. Sam wakes up when Dean exits the car, and even Cas struggles his way out of the car, not listening to Dean’s protests. They gear up, barely saying a word. A numb kind of determination fuels them. They just need to see this through and then let it fade from memory. 

The smell hits them first when they enter the house. Dried out blood and burnt skin. All three ready their angel blades, stepping forward carefully, deeper into the house. There’s no furniture, no rugs on the floor. Just a husk of a house, a depressing place that looks like nobody has called it a home in a long time. They scout the rooms methodologically, silently signaling that the kitchen and the living room are empty. The smell gets worse when they get nearer the bedroom. The door is closed and they exchange knowing glances. Dean takes point, pushing the door open slowly. 

God, the smell. He wants to puke, it reeks of slaughterhouse. He covers his nose, breathing into his sleeve. Sam coughs behind him. There’s a lying figure in the middle of the room, curled up in a fetal position, unmoving. 

Dean steps closer, circling the body. It looks like a skinny, young man, but it’s hard to tell, as there are large burns everywhere on his body, deep gashes where the bright, blue light of angel grace is seeping through. His hands and arms are almost burnt to the bone, and beside him lays an abandoned angel blade. 

He kneels before the angel, Sam and Cas stepping behind him. Dean’s breath catches in his throat, when Raguel opens his eyes, and just looks at him. They don’t say a thing, but Dean can read the silent surrender in his eyes. And despite everything this asshole has put them through, Dean feels sorry for him now. 

They stare at each other for a while, unblinking, and Dean keeps expecting Raguel to speak up, try to defend himself, spout some religious bullshit, anything. But he remains quiet, and it just makes it more difficult. It feels more like an execution, and that brings so many unwanted memories and deep-buried feelings of guilt back to surface. 

Dean breaks the eye contact. He can’t drag this out any further, better be done with it than delay the inevitable. They can’t let him live. Coldness settles under his skin, and he has to force his uncooperative muscles to move. He twirls the angel blade in his hand, mustering a rueful smile.

“You know how it is. Someone’s gotta die in the end.” He speaks in a muted voice, giving Raguel a final chance to say something, but the angel merely blinks at him, a defeated look settled on his pale face. Dean steels himself and drives the blade deep into his chest, holding the spasming body in place with his other hand. A bright light enlightens the room for a second, dying out just as quickly. The body goes limp, eyes mercifully closed, and Dean makes out the shape of wings in the grey lighting in the room. The imprints of the feathers are sparse and charred, like they’d been burning awhile. 

He stands up quietly, with Sam steadying him, chest heavy, like there’s a large rock lodged inside his ribcage, and it’s almost as if he’s suffocating. It’s a good thing that they’ve done, it’s gotta be. They’re safe, everyone is safe, but still Dean feels like shit. 

* * *

Luckily for them, they find a roadside motel fairly quickly, after getting the greasiest takeout hamburgers Castiel has seen in his time with the Winchesters. Dean has been really quiet and withdrawn after they got out of that house, and it can’t be all written off as exhaustion. They all need some space after this hunt, he knows it. Seeing one of his brothers like that, so far gone, it was hard on Castiel as well. But right now, Castiel just wants to sleep like the dead, and it’s getting harder to stay awake, so it’s a relief when Dean pulls into the parking lot. Sam tidies up and readies himself to leave the car, when Dean casually speaks over his shoulder.

“Hey, take two rooms, will you?” Castiel offers him a tired, but surprised glance, but Dean ignores him, raising his eyebrows expectantly to Sam, who coughs awkwardly. 

“Uh, sure. Guess you have some catching up to do.” With that, he leaves the car, leaving Castiel and Dean alone. 

“So to clarify, he’s getting a room for us?” Castiel asks, and Dean rolls his eyes at him.

“Who else? Someone’s gotta take care of you.” 

“Not sure if I warranty that kind of care, but I’m glad to be sharing the room with you, Dean.” 

“You’re a sap. Now let’s get inside before you keel over.” The tone is affectionate, but there still is an edge to it when Dean speaks. Castiel notices how tense his shoulders are, how guarded his eyes look, but lets it rest for now.

They gather their belongings from the car in silence, and Sam comes back with the keys, dangling them from a leathery keychain. 

“Here you go, room 5. I’ll be in room 10, if you need me for anything.” They say their goodnights, and make their way to their room, Dean guiding Castiel forward with a steady grip on his elbow. So maybe his legs are shakier than he thought, and maybe the world around him sways and blurs around the edges, but Dean seems to have caught up on that already. 

Dean unlocks the room and clicks the lights on, nodding approvingly to the king-sized bed in the middle of the room. Castiel heads for the bed immediately without any further notion of checking out their room, slumping down on top of the comforter, weight of his limbs dragging him further down, and Dean follows closely, kneeling down in front of him. 

“Hey, you okay?” Castiel nods numbly. He can’t feel any worse than Dean with his ugly coloured, fresh bruises, but he can’t for the life of him find the energy to even take off his jacket. Dean seems to understand that, and something on his face finally shifts and softens.

“Okay, let’s get you out of your clothes and clean you up,” he says decisively. Shuffling closer, bracketed by Castiel’s knees, Dean starts undressing Castiel, sliding the battered jacket off him and lets it pool behind his back. Castiel relaxes under his touch, pleasant shivers running down his back when Dean strips him with gentle hands. A hushed silence envelops the room, Dean’s measured breaths tickle his skin, and he can’t help but to reach over and touch Dean, fingers running through his hair slowly, aching to feel him. Dean’s eyes find his, and Castiel cradles his face, thumbs soothing the worried lines around his eyes.

“Dean, are _you_ okay?” He asks in a quiet voice. Dean leans into his hands and closes his eyes, tension bleeding out of him almost visibly.

“Yeah, I’m- I’m fine,” he answers, but there’s something missing, the hardness which he wears like an armor, and instead his voice just sounds rough and vulnerable. He snaps out of it quickly, pulls a sad approximation of a smile on his face. Castiel’s heart clenches.

“Come on. You need to get up for a second,” Dean whispers and pulls Castiel up, flush against his body. Dean doesn’t take his eyes off him when he slides off the shirt and starts working on the belt of his trousers. Their noses almost touch, and it’s the world’s easiest thing to lean in and press a tentative kiss on his lips. His lips are warm and willing, and he just wants to kiss Dean’s sadness away. Dean chases after him when he pulls back, softly kissing him again, and Castiel almost melts against him. Dean eases his trousers off him, and then he gestures with his hands on Castiel’s chest for him to sit down again, now only clad in his boxers. There’s so much going on between them, the mere intimacy of the moment making Castiel breathless, and Dean eyes him appreciatively, his hands still hot on Castiel’s body. Dean leans in and plants his lips on his forehead in a quick kiss, before retreating into the bathroom, and Castiel’s able to breathe again. 

“Dean,” Castiel starts hesitantly. Dean hums in response, coming back with a small, wet hand towel. He kneels again and starts wiping the blood off Castiel’s face. He seems more like himself now, like maybe he had needed this, to be needed. 

“Did you, um, mean what you said? Back at the cabin. About us being...serious about this.” Castiel has trouble finding the right words. Dean gives him a confused look, and then his eyes crinkle up in an almost bashful smile and he glances down.

“Look, I’m not the greatest with this stuff, but yeah, I did mean it. I’m in, if you are.” Relief floods through Castiel, and he can almost forget about his bone-weary exhaustion for a second. He leans forward to place their foreheads gently, fingers snaking behind Dean’s neck to intertwine in the fine hairs there. 

“Yeah, I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some nsfw in this chapter
> 
> who am I kidding, it's just shameless smut

When Dean wakes up in the morning, he almost feels normal. He’s tangled in the sheets, curled up on his side, and he doesn’t ache all over. Cas must’ve healed him, because there isn’t even a mark on his body. That means Cas must be also feeling better. He’s glad for the shower he dragged himself into last night after Cas basically passed out on the bed, because he actually smells decent. He slightly rolls over, noting the empty space beside him. Where the hell is Cas? The angel didn’t even move a muscle last night, when Dean climbed right next to him in the bed and pulled him closer, draping a hand around him. He worried for Cas, but the angel had reassured him that he would be fine after getting some rest. Sleep came easier for Dean than in ages too; real, uninterrupted sleep. 

He curls back on his side, letting himself drift back to the last couple of days. There’s still a heaviness that lingers inside of him, and he’s unable to shake it. He wanted the Mark back. He recalls the frustration, the weakness, when he was unable to fight back, back in the hospital and in the cabin, and he remembers how urgently he wanted to feel the blade in his hand again, feel the power rushing through him. Dean could’ve finished Raguel off without sweat if he still had the blade. And the thought makes him sick and guilty. He shouldn’t want that anymore. And to find the angel in a such state, a mutilated shadow of his former self, Dean can’t help but think that under very different circumstances, it could’ve been him. How far gone would’ve he gone, if Sam and Cas hadn’t been able to save him? 

The door opens suddenly and he hears Cas entering the room. 

“Hey, I was talking with Sam. Do you want to- Dean?” Cas suddenly cuts off, and then there’s footsteps and the bed dibs behind him. Cas shuffles closer, chest to his back, worming a hand around his waist, holding him close. He really must be wearing his heart on his sleeve for Cas to pick up on his discomfort so easily. Dean feels too raw to even try to play it cool and he accepts the comfort without any protest, relaxing into the embrace.

“You’re thinking about something that makes you sad,” Cas breathes into his neck, tickling him. Dean sighs heavily, almost readying to close himself off with his usual  _ I’m fine _ -charades, but something stops him. It’s what partially got him into this shit, right? Sam’s worlds still ring in his head.  _ Just be honest.  _

“I’m just...thinking about Raguel.” He starts, trying to sort the mess inside of him. “I mean, he became so obsessed with killing people, and the rage in him… I still feel that way too, sometimes. And I just keep remembering how it felt-” Dean stops for a second, hesitates to let the next words come out, “-how  _ good _ it felt, to give into that power, to let the Mark consume me, because for once I didn’t have to feel so goddamn weak. And I was  _ this  _ close to becoming like him. And I’m still afraid that I would let myself be corrupted like that again, if given the opportunity.”

Cas tightens his hold on him.

“Dean, you’re the strongest person I know. You’re loyal and stubborn, you’re willing to give everything of yourself to the ones you care about, and you  _ have _ , so many times, and you’re still only able to think about your perceived failings. We everyone have our reasons to carry our guilt with us, but you’re letting it drown you. You’re a good person, and I wish you would see yourself as I see you.” 

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but Cas is the one person he can’t win in this. The angel silences him by nuzzling his neck. 

“And I know a thing or two about having superhuman powers, and I know about losing them too. It makes you feel so… helpless and weak, like there’s nothing left of you. The powers bestowed upon you might have been borne of dark things, but for awhile, you were invincible. I think it is only human to feel little less after that.” The sincere honesty in Cas, time after time, manages to tear down his defenses and make him feel better, almost against his will. He lets go of the dark thoughts reluctantly. Maybe it’s a fight for another day. Also Cas’ body pressed right against Dean’s is definitely improving his morning. 

“You know I’m going to keep telling you that everyday,” Cas rumbles in his low voice, planting a featherlight kiss behind his ear. Dean uncurls slightly, placing his hand on Cas' arm, fingers trailing his shirt sleeve and he smooths the angel’s hand against his own, bare chest.

“You can tell me now.” Cas hums in response, sounding like he’s aboard this idea, and it sends shivers down Dean’s neck. He begins caressing Dean’s chest, and Dean holds his wrist in a light grip, Cas' fingers grazing occasionally over his nipples, lips hot and teasing their way from his neck to jawline, and he moves even closer, so that there’s virtually no space between their bodies. Dean can feel Cas breathing deeply, how it reverberates against his body. 

“You should just see yourself, Dean. A spectre of colors and the light coming off you... I could just watch you forever,” Cas speaks against his skin, causing Dean to smile in amusement. He experimentally grinds his ass against Cas' groin to remind him what they’re doing, and is not disappointed when Cas hisses quietly in surprise. 

“Colors? You trying to talk dirty to me?” He quips, although the roaming touches on his neck and stomach are making his pulse beat quicker. He’s half hard already, and Cas hasn’t even touched him properly. Fuck, it’s been ages since they’ve been able to enjoy each other like this, and his body is responding eagerly. 

“No, I’m just telling what I’m seeing. It’s the brightest here-” Cas moves his hand to Dean’s heart, pressing against the skin with his warm fingertips, “-all green and blue, and nothing can shadow the light pouring out.” Then his hand travels slowly lower, over his hip bones and fucking finally palms his cock through his underwear. Dean bucks into the touch, sighing in pleasure and grips Cas' arm tighter.

“If you’re saying that some light is shining off my crotch, then I know you’re just messing with me,” he chuckles breathlessly and Cas huffs in reply.

“Red,” he breathes out, but Dean can hear him smiling,  _ the fucker _ . Fingers caressing the length slowly, his thumb circles the head of Dean’s cock through the fabric so that he can’t breathe right anymore, any retorts forgotten. He quickly hardens under Cas' attention, cock straining against the fabric, but he tries to hold himself still, let Cas take care of him. The angel squeezes and caresses his balls gently, and then he wraps his hand around his length, and Dean can’t suppress the tiny moan that escapes him when Cas starts jerking him loosely through the underwear. Fuck, it feels so good already. Cas remains steady and collected, occasionally kissing him anywhere he can reach Dean in this position, but Dean can feel the outline of his cock pressing against his ass and it feels like a promise. 

Cas slips his hand underneath his waistband, lowering them down his hips and Dean tries to help, shimmying them past his knees and ankles, kicking them off quickly and leaving him completely naked. Cas continues where he left off, gripping him tighter and starts moving his hand just the way he know Dean likes it, smearing the precum over his length with each stroke. He can already feel his abdomen muscles tensing, that sweet wave of pleasure waiting just out of reach, and he has to bite his lips to keep the sounds from pouring out of his lips. He’s tempted to let Cas finish him off like this, but he doesn’t want this to end so quickly. He grabs Cas' hand, squeezes it reluctantly to make him stop.

“Cas, I’m too close already, you need to stop.” 

“I don’t see why that’s a problem.” Cas definitely sounds more lightheaded than usual, his normal collectiveness cracking. Fuck, Dean wants to see him come apart at the seams. He carefully takes Cas' hand off his cock, silently mourning the loss of contact already, and instead guides it between them, pushing his ass up against Cas' groin and parting his legs slightly, trying to say what he wants without words. The angel smooths his hand down Dean’s ass, fingers hesitantly gliding over his hole, touch so light that it doesn’t do anything but wind Dean up further. 

“You sure?” Cas asks, voice wrecked, continuing the light touches over his rim, tracing a path downwards to his perineum. 

“Yeah, yeah, lube’s in the bag,” Dean answers breathlessly, trying not to sound so eager and desperate, although he knows he’s failing at that. Cas kisses him once and scoots off the bed, while Dean turns on his back, eyeing the angel in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing in your suit? Clothes off.” Cas shoots him a look that’s equal parts grumpy and amused, digging out the small bottle from the bag and tossing it on the bed. He takes his shoes off and sheds the jacket, meticulously folding it and going next for the shirt, and Dean follows him intently from his spot on the bed, raising his eyebrows when he sees the obvious tent in his trousers. 

“I’m not giving you a show,” Cas grumbles, slightly embarrassed for the sudden attention, but he keeps the eye contact while his fingers move quickly with the buttons of his shirt before he slides that off too, revealing the nicely toned chest and shoulders that Dean especially appreciates. 

“Oh, I’m entertained plenty,” Dean quips back, resisting the urge to start touching himself, following keenly when Cas goes for his belt and takes his trousers and underwear off, finally naked. He’s fully hard and not particularly shy about it either, quirking his eyebrow in a silent “ _ well?”  _ and climbing slowly back to bed, completely ignoring his own erection. 

“What do you want?” Cas murmurs, fingers running up Dean’s thigh, skirting near his cock. Dean’s pulse speeds up a little, fire in his veins. 

“I liked having you against me,” he offers weakly. Cas nods, expression soft. They arrange themselves back to how they were, Dean’s back tightly pressed against Cas’ chest, and Cas slides his knee between Dean’s thighs to spread them slightly. Every time their bodies shift, Dean feels Cas’ cock sliding over the cleft of his ass, and every teasing touch makes him shiver. There’s a odd kind of reverie that’s settled over them, neither willing to disturb it, even if Dean feels  _ insanely  _ aroused, because having Cas right there feels just maddeningly right. He hears the click of a bottle opening and closing, and right after that Cas’ fingers are caressing and pressing against his hole. 

At first, Dean flinches from the cold sensation, but then Cas pushes his finger carefully past the rim and slowly into him. The intrusion feels kind of weird at first, it’s been a while, and when he adds another finger the stretch is almost uncomfortable. Cas patiently waits Dean to relax, slowly spreading him, fingers probing deeper and deeper. Dean melts into the touch, first letting Cas choose the pace, but his patience runs thin quickly and he grinds his hips to chase the slowly building pleasure inside of him. Dean shudders abruptly when the angel’s fingers rub against his prostate and Cas finds the spot again, eliciting a low moan from him. Every sensation feels suddenly so much more amped up, Cas’ shallow breaths tickling his neck, his body radiating heat and his fingers gliding mercilessly over his prostate. It’s too much and not enough, and Dean tries to breathe through it, small gasps filling the air.

“Dean, do you want to-”

“Yeah,  _ fuck,  _ yeah-” and then Cas is flipping him around on his back and Dean spreads his legs to accommodate Cas between them. Cas positions his legs underneath Dean’s thighs, sitting back on his heels. Instead of just burying himself into Dean and fucking him senseless, Cas leans back and just watches him. He’s flushed, looking like he’s almost tipping over the edge already, and his eyes - they’re intense, basking Dean in warmth and love, pure, raw emotions just shining through. There’s no fear, no doubt in him, and no sorrow, and Dean realizes this is the first time in a long time he sees Cas unmasked fully. He feels small under that gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” Cas breathes out and Dean can’t take his eyes off him, feeling his cheeks redden from the compliment. The angel leans in and places a tender kiss on his sternum, and Dean almost feels like his heart might burst out of his chest. Next is his jawline, then the corner of his lips. Chaste, dry kisses, just warm lips touching his skin and lighting him on fire. Dean’s ready to lose himself in that feeling and Cas must’ve caught that, because something in his eyes shifts, bright blue darkening knowingly. He positions their hips, fingers gripping Dean’s thigh, and guides his cock into his entrance. Dean’s hands find purchase in the angel’s hair and neck, holding him close, and Cas leans on his elbow to support his upper body. There’s some resistance when Cas breaches him, an uncomfortable twinge, and Dean tries to adjust, relaxing around Cas. 

“You okay?” Cas asks, stubble scraping his cheek when he turns his head slightly to get a better look at Dean.

“Yeah, just- just keep going,” Dean says roughly, and Cas slides deeper agonizingly slow, stretching him further. Soon the discomfort passes and Cas starts moving, first just barely rolling his hips into him, but Dean wraps his legs around him, urging him on. Cas groans, picking up the pace, settling for a steady rhythm and Dean meets his every thrust, tilting his hips and trying to get Cas to hit that sweet spot again. His neglected cock throbs and leaks on his stomach and he releases his other hand from Cas’ hair, snaking his hand between them, thumbing the slick head. 

“Ohhh _ fuck,”  _ he moans, voice barely over a whisper. He starts fucking his fist, matching Cas’ thrusts, skirting dangerously close to coming already, just drowning himself in the sensations of pure bliss. He would stay like this if he could, just letting the ecstasy build further and further, letting Cas wrangle punched out whimpers from him with every thrust. The pace turns more frantic, Cas’ hips stuttering slightly, and  _ fuck  _ he gets the angle just right because Dean’s whole back arches, muscles tightening and clenching as he reaches his peak, and he comes with a low moan, shooting all over his hand and stomach. He’s vaguely aware of Cas gripping his cock, intertwining their fingers and jerking him until he shoots another load, muscles spasming involuntarily, the intense waves overloading his senses. He can’t do nothing but ride it out, trying to get some air into his lungs, but Cas is there to catch him, holding him close through the orgasm, face buried into the crook of his neck.

Dean becomes faintly aware of how tightly he’s gripping Cas’ hair, and he lets go, his whole body sinking into the mattress, boneless. But Cas is still hard, his cock buried inside of Dean, and he’s stilled himself in favor of taking care of Dean first. Every small touch still feels overwhelmingly good and on the brink of being too much, and he manages to grind his hips forward to encourage Cas to start moving again. Cas moans, eyes fluttering closed and he snaps his hips forward forcefully, fucking him hard. Dean lets his body go pliant under him, trying to suppress the shudders as his oversensitized body responds to Cas. It doesn’t take long for Cas to finish, and he comes hard, pulsating inside of him and moaning out Dean’s name. He stays like that for a while, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes closed, chasing the last throes of his orgasm, before he collapses partially on top of Dean, arm splayed carelessly over his chest. 

They stay silent for a while, trying to catch their breath, panting like they just ran a marathon. Dean’s drowsy, limbs so heavy he can’t be bothered to move and clean himself up, even though he starts to finally come down, feeling sticky and gross all over. Instead, he closes his eyes, relishing the warmth Cas provides and the intimacy of their tangled bodies. In this moment, everything is as it should be.

“How are you feeling?” Cas asks after a while, breath tickling his cheek. Dean hums, blinking sluggishly.

“I’m good, that was just, uh, very intense,” he offers with a lazy grin. Cas makes a contented noise in an agreement. They fall back into comfortable silence, but soon Cas starts wiggling, a little restless. He rummages around the bed, finding some article of discarded clothing and starts cleaning them up, first starting with Dean’s groin, then sliding the cloth between his legs. He unexpectedly pushes one finger past his sensitive rim, making Dean suck in his breath when he prods around, experimenting. 

“What are you doing?” Dean asks grumpily, still deep down little bit disappointed when Cas extracts his fingers and continues his cleaning. 

“I just love you all loose and wet,” Cas rumbles against his skin and begins wiping down himself. Dean actually blushes from the sudden remark, but manages to laugh it off. Trust Cas to deliver dirty talk when he wants to. It would be hot if he had an ounce of energy left.

“Cas, you have a kink,” he grins.

“No, I don’t,” comes the reply, little too quickly. Dean turns on his side, coming face to face with Cas, bodies flush against each other, still a wide grin lightening up his features. Cas scrunches up his nose and lifts his hand to touch Dean’s face, apparently attempting to wipe the smirk off somehow, but Dean slaps his hand away.

“Dude no, you realize where your hand has been? Keep it off my face.” There’s an amused twinkle in Cas’ eyes, the crow’s feet around his eyes more prominent. 

“I could’ve sworn you liked it earlier.”

“Okay, stop it. Turn around, I won’t have your cum-stained fingers on my fucking face,” he orders, trying to act gruff and nudging Cas to move. Cas complies, sighing in defeat, and rolls around, squirming to get closer and fit his back and ass against Dean. Dean drapes his hand over Cas and pulls his body tight against him, face pressed into the nape of his neck. A sudden rush of affection flows through him, clenching his heart almost painfully. Being the big spoon feels nice. Safer too. He can hide his emotions better, because Cas breaks him apart in the best ways everytime he looks into his eyes. They breathe in tandem, and Cas’ fingers find his, slotting together. Dean doesn’t mind it that much this time.

“Hey,” he whispers after a while, not sure if Cas has drifted off. He knows the angel does that sometimes, even though he’d never admit it. 

“Yes, Dean?” Cas mumbles his answer. Dean hesitates a little before he voices out the concern that has been quietly nagging at him.

“You’ll stay this time, right?” He’s tired of seeing Cas leave. He’s afraid he’ll do it again. It almost feels too much to let Cas see him vulnerable, and he immediately regrets he ever asked the question. Cas squeezes his hand reassuringly. 

“I’ll stay, Dean.” There’s softness and honesty in the timbre of his low voice, and it’s enough to stave off his demons this time. It’s enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and following this story! If you're into some Dean!whump or fluff and clueless gays, I got two stories on the way.


End file.
